


The Amaranthine War: Part 1

by Maren_Stone



Series: The Amaranthine War [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Elves, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Fantasy, Freedom, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, My First AO3 Post, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reincarnation, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Soul Bond, Suicidal Thoughts, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maren_Stone/pseuds/Maren_Stone
Summary: The Nix and Ignis have been at war for over a thousand years. With the Nix on the verge of defeat, Ignis soldiers are being sent home to rebuild the country.Rogan was a commanding general during the war, but the years of bloodshed have taken their toll. Tired of the suffering that war brings, he returns home to the peaceful life of a provincial Lord. Still, the screams of the innocent and the nightmares of the battlefield haunt him.Nasir has been a slave for the last sixteen years. Forced to be an entertainer and bed companion to his sworn enemies, he wonders if it is worth it to continue living. But something inside him forces him to keep going.When these two meet, something ancient is remembered. To find peace together, they have to bridge the rift between their peoples. Too bad others aren't so keen on the idea.
Relationships: Nasir Lysanthir/Rogan Valquin
Series: The Amaranthine War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726597
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	1. Rogan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter serves as the prologue to the story.

Rogan opened his eyes to a vast expanse of white and dammit he was here again.

He recognized this huge, empty dream world, his unconscious mind having dropped him here occasionally over the years. There was no rhyme or reason as to when this dream appeared. In the morning, he always felt as though he was missing part of himself.

A familiar looming presence was behind him, and he turned to see the huge black wall. The top stretched endlessly up into a white sky. Although it was undoubtedly black, something about it shifted, constantly agitated. More like dense smoke trapped in a glass box than a true solid wall. Rogan took a step forward and placed a hand on the wall.

Ah, there it was.

Something lived behind the wall. Even though Rogan couldn’t see the being, he felt its emotional state. Most of the time, the emotions were negative, but they would fluctuate in strength as if they were closer or further away.

The first few times Rogan had this dream, he had tried everything he could think of to get the being’s attention. He called out to it, slammed his hands against the wall, and even threw fire at it. Nothing he did ever received a response. After many failed attempts, Rogan concluded the being could neither see nor hear him. It probably couldn’t even sense his presence. Perhaps it was a quality of that thick blackness.

On that night, the creature was again in pretty rough shape. A cold numbness emanated from the wall. It was like touching an inner wall of a house when a thick sheet of ice coated the outer side. An undercurrent of resignation, of giving up and waiting for the end, made Rogan’s heart clench.

This feeling was all too common. Of the dozen or so times he had this dream, this was the being’s state more than half of those times. Sometimes isolated, other times mixed with equally depressing emotions.

_Pain so fierce it shredded your soul._

_Regret so deep it felt like drowning._

_Loneliness so piercing it broke your heart._

_Fear so nerve wracking it made you go insane._

_And self-loathing so strong it made you want to die._

Why was this creature always hurting? He desperately wanted to reach out to it, comfort it, take it away from whatever was causing it to suffer. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else feeling that kind of pain. But he couldn’t get to it. Damn this wall, trapping him here and making him useless. All he had been able to do was sit here and try to convey to the being that it was not alone. 

This was the closest the being had ever felt, like it was in his own backyard. Numbness seeped into Rogan’s bones and he felt it as if it was his own. Rogan was suffocating in it. How did this being manage to stay alive, to hold on and not end it all? 

Gritting his teeth in frustration, he punched that damned wall so hard he heard bones in his fist crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm so excited to be starting this story, I hope you all enjoy it!


	2. Rogan

He gasped as he woke with a start, cold sweat forming on his brow. Remnants of that suffocating numbness lingered in his heart along with a distinct feeling that something almost in reach had been lost. 

He was back in his own room, a cool spring breeze wafting through the window. Normal peaceful sounds of the night were punctuated by rowdiness coming from the front courtyard where the entertainer troupe had gathered around their campfire. By the sound of it, they had ingested a large quantity of alcohol.

Familiar questions preoccupied his mind. Who was behind the wall? Why couldn’t he get to them, help them? Why did he have the dream in the first place? Answers never came to him; he wasn’t even sure where to start looking for them. They circled through his head, building themselves up into a restless agitation that he desperately wanted escape from. There was no way in hell he was going back to sleep at that moment. He had to go somewhere. Anywhere. Needed to clear his head.

He got out of bed, then pulled on some clothes and a cloak that concealed his face. Dealing with people was not something he wanted to do right now.

It was almost sad how easy it was to slip out of the manor without anyone noticing. Most of the security focused on keeping an eye on the vagabonds in the courtyard. His intention was to sneak around the caravan and down the road a bit before he cut over to a small path and disappeared into the forest for a while. He wanted to lose himself in familiar sounds and smells of nature, let them soothe the ache in his chest. 

That had been the plan, anyway.

He gave the circle of caravan wagons a wide berth and had just stepped back onto the road when the faint sound of someone singing reached his ears. The sound was low and melodic, certainly a man’s voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but the song dripped with nostalgia. A tug inside him prompted Rogan to seek out the owner of that voice.

Letting his feet follow the song, he approached a small wagon. Why was this one alone? Being pushed back excluded it from the circle around the fire. A strong oak door was set into one end, and the single cramped window had sturdy iron bars over it. 

The lilting song – that he now recognized to be in Nixasi, a language he hadn’t heard in well over a decade - drifted out of that mobile prison. Not wanting to scare whoever was inside, Rogan leaned on the wall beside the window as quietly as he could.

* _Farewell to water and ice and snow_

_Rolling off the mountain, blending with the sky_

_Leaving you dealt such a blow_

_To this weary traveler, far from home.*_

Rogan rested his head back against the wall. The moon was so bright.

_*This aching heart wants for nothing more_

_Than one more song and dance with kin_

_Or to walk through the tavern door_

_For one more drink with dearest friends.*_

Rogan closed his eyes and released a tense breath trapped in his chest he hadn’t realized was there. The song washed over him like a wave, calming him, despite the somewhat sad nature of the lyrics. Why did it sound so familiar even though he’d never heard it before?

_*But remembering such times will not do_

_Unless I can return to you_

_So far and wide my steps will roam_

_Until the day I come back home.*_

Softer than the others, the last verse trailed off into the night. A moment of silence hung in the air. Then, the soft voice spoke up warily.

“Who’s there?”

Rogan turned his head towards the window, not sure which of his careful movements had given away his presence.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just appreciating your song, it’s quite beautiful.” He kept his voice just as quiet as the other person’s, making it as gentle and non-threatening as possible.

Moonlight behind him cast a shadow on his face as he turned to peer through the window. A small pool of pale light was the only illumination in the wagon. All he could see of the occupant was a pair of slender legs pale as snow. Threadbare trousers made of rough fabric only half covered the man’s legs, but he wore no shoes while a heavy shackle clamped around one ankle.

It was still early spring, why was the man dressed so lightly? Was he not cold?

“Ah, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it, sir.”

The voice was so quiet Rogan would have missed it if he weren’t paying attention.

A slight shift made the chain on the shackle clink. The sound was cold and harsh in the quiet of the night.

“Is…is there anything I can do for you? Bring you a blanket, or something to eat?” With this treatment, it was clear the man in the wagon was a slave. A Nix slave, if he were to judge by the skin tone. Ignis people were never so pale.

An empty chuckle echoed softly around the wagon. “You are very kind, sir. Thank you, but I’m alright. There’s no need to trouble yourse-,” The voice broke off and paused. Rogan listened, too. Shuffling and muttering sounds were growing nearer, signs of someone approaching.

“You need to go.” Urgency highlighted the whispered voice. “Don’t let them catch you here, they’ll think you’re trying to steal me.”

Rogan hesitated. The approaching person sounded angry, and he worried the trapped man would be the target of their venting. He wanted to help this Nix but was unsure why he felt that way. He shouldn’t care; he had spent years fighting Nix in the endless war, had killed countless numbers of them. He didn’t even know what this one’s face looked like, much less his name or anything about him.

“Don’t just stand there, go!”

The man shifted, leaning forward to emphasize his words, but his face still did not come into the moonlight.

Rogan hesitated a second longer, then nodded silently and pulled away from the wagon. He stepped into the shadows cast by the nearby trees, trying to blend into the darkness. With his larger frame, he wasn’t always successful when sneaking. Luckily, this time the other party was thoroughly intoxicated.

A red-faced man stepped up to the wagon, fumbling with a key ring, before he entered it.

Once the other person was inside, Rogan took the opportunity to slip away. Instead of heading down the road though, he went back to his rooms. 

He tried going back to sleep, but a new topic had taken hold of his mind. Instead of the vast empty dream and the black wall, thoughts of that slave whose face he hadn’t seen rolled around his head. The one whose song was incredibly beautiful but also terribly sad. It played over and over in his head, voice haunting him.

Finally falling asleep again, he drifted in nothingness before returning to the wall and the mysterious being. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought the suffocating numbness was just a little lighter this time.

* * *

The next morning, Rogan woke to a firm knock on his door. He could hear hurried servants in the hallway, preparing for the day’s celebration.

“Lord Rogan, your breakfast is ready,” a bright voice announced from outside. 

Groaning, Rogan forced himself up into a sitting position. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and what he did get was far from restful.

“Thank you, Fiora, I’ll be out soon,” he replied. Taking a moment to wake himself fully, Rogan stretched the muscles in his arms and shoulders. With all the preparations for that day, he hadn’t had the time to properly train in over a week. Such a long lapse in exercise had begun taking its toll, and his body had started feeling stiff from lack of use. As soon as the party was over, he swore he would take at least two full days to catch up with training.

The remaining vestiges of sleep were chased away when he rolled out of the four-poster bed and his feet hit the cold wood floor. The breeze that came through the window was relatively warmer than it had been the night before. Sunlight spilled in and created a singular patch of warmth on the ground. Bird song could be heard, soft tittering that contrasted with the loud bustle of active people.

Two outfit sets had been picked out the night before. The first set consisted of his daily wear; a loose shirt and breeches. The second was more formal, each piece richer in color and trimmed with intricate embroidery. Dread filled him when he thought about dealing with the tight clothes later that evening. For now, Rogan pulled the cotton shirt of the simpler outfit over his broad shoulders. Memories of the night before filled his head as he mechanically dressed himself. There would be no answers today, just as there were never any before. Trying not to focus on the details, he distracted himself by pulling on his work-worn boots, making a mental note to purchase new ones.

Rogan left his bedroom without even glancing in the mirror. As he approached the private dining room, the number of servants bustling around him increased. There were far more than normal, but even the temporary staff hardly paid attention to him besides some curt nods and greetings of, ‘Good morning mi’ lord,’ before they moved past him to continue their duties.

This type of interaction suited him just fine. As far as lords went, Rogan was probably one of the most lenient regarding master-servant formalities. They worked for him to keep their families fed, not because he owned them. Besides, they were busy with preparations and he would be drowning in more attention than he was comfortable with at the banquet that evening.

Until recently, turning forty was an extremely significant event in a soldier’s life. Although their life expectancy was supposedly just over one hundred-twenty years, nobody, Nix or Ignis, had lived to that age in a long time. The war had been going on for over a thousand years and ensured that most lives were cut short well before their natural end. Those who became soldiers typically died young in battle. Raids, strict ration control, and harsh living conditions meant even civilians only lived until about sixty or seventy.

Since the fall of the Nix capital city Kheima, sixteen years prior, the war had been all but won. The Nix capability to fight back had drastically diminished and continued to decline ever since. Only a few pockets of resistance remained, and they were more focused on survival than winning. The Ignis military thus allowed many soldiers and generals – Rogan included – to return home.

These soldiers returning meant there were more people available to farm the land and fewer dying on the battlefield. Ignis now expected to live much fuller and longer lives. As the Ignis gained stability, the Nix died at ever younger ages.

Turning forty didn’t particularly matter one way or another to Rogan. He had only planned on celebrating it with a slightly nicer dinner, or perhaps a new sword. His uncle, Lord Garrik Talron, hadn’t agreed and insisted on hosting a lavish celebration. When Rogan turned him down, he had gone ahead and made arrangements on his own. He only informed his nephew at a later point, when it was no longer possible to refuse.

Before he reached the dining room, a thin figure stepped in front of him to block his path. The woman’s face was stern but not unkind when she reprimanded him. “Mi’ lord, how can you leave your room looking so unkempt?”

Confused, Rogan looked down at his appearance. “What are you talking about, Fiora? This outfit is perfectly acceptable.”

Fiora huffed in exasperation. “Not your clothes, sir, your hair! It looks as though you just walked in from a windstorm!” Before a protest could escape his lips, she ushered him into the private dining room and sat him down in a chair.

Producing a small comb from her pocket, the housekeeper started fussing with the auburn locks. “I swear Sir, if you insist on keeping it this long you have to take better care of it. If you aren’t going to you should just cut it short like the other generals. I’m not your mother.” She kept muttering in this vain for several minutes until she had tamed every flyaway back into its place. 

Rogan let her fuss. He knew she would find something to fix one way or another. Fiora had been in his employ for more than two decades, and she was nothing if not a perfectionist. She included his appearance and health in her duties as her role expanded from simple housekeeper to strict older sister, despite her being the younger one. To be honest, he rather liked having someone to nit-pick at him. No one else would dare talk to a lord the way she did. And he was wholly convinced the entire estate would fall into ruin should she ever leave.

Having finished, Fiora stepped to the side. “Much better, but after breakfast make sure to get Lorsan to trim that beard. For now, you should eat mi’ lord. The rest of the day will be extremely busy.”

“Thank you, Fiora. I will come find you when I have finished.” Bowing, Fiora departed, allowing him to eat his breakfast in relative peace.

A simple breakfast was laid out in the private dining room. Eggs, sausage, bread and fruit were all neatly arranged at one end of the table within easy reach of his place setting. Rogan took his time to eat, savoring a moment of calm before he threw himself into the tempest of the day.

What remained of the morning was spent finalizing preparations and resolving last minute crises. Guests started arriving after noon. Formalities of greetings and settling them in their rooms took up most of Rogan’s time. A few of the lords he greeted with sincerity. They were ones he would have chosen to invite himself. However, there were more guests that he welcomed with a fake, stiff smile. It seemed that Rogan’s uncle had invited all the lords, regardless of his likes or dislikes.

Politically, this was the better option because no lord could be upset over a lack of invitation. Everyone knew, though, that Rogan didn’t particularly care for politics. Or socializing for that matter. Balls and parties were boring, gossip was presumptuous, and he was never interested in someone enough to court them. When first entering court, his behavior rubbed more than one aristocrat the wrong way. They backed off after realizing he treated everyone with the same amount of apathy. Every so often, they would be able to coax him out for personal visits or hunting trips, but that was the best that could be done. Mostly, they were content to let him alone.

Now, they mostly judged him for his recreational habits. He liked going to farms to check crop progress, hunt with local men, and join them for drinks at the tavern in the evenings. It was incomprehensible to them why a lord general like himself – a war hero, no less – would lower himself to the level of a mere commoner. Secretly, he was sure they were only upset because he was so open about his habits that they couldn’t use them as political blackmail.

It was getting late, almost time for Rogan to get ready for the party. Seven lords had responded they would attend, and one had yet to arrive. Said missing lord was none other than the mastermind behind the aggravating event.

Checking the clock for the hundredth time, Rogan paced up and down the entry hall. While he was a little worried something may have happened, his uncle was also a general and was fully capable of taking care of himself. Therefore, annoyance at his uncle’s unseemly delay was at the forefront of his mind.

Just as Rogan was ready to give up and go get ready, the door knocker resounded loudly several times. 

About damn time.

Unfortunately, upon opening the door it was not his uncle standing on the threshold. Instead, a wispy young man who was barely an adult stood at attention, waiting to be acknowledged. 

“What brings you here?”

“I bring a message to Lord Valquin from Lord Talron.” The young man was so stiff one may have mistaken him for a stuffed mannequin.

“I am Lord Valquin. State your message.”

“My Lord Talron wishes to convey with his utmost regret that he will be unable to attend this evening’s festivities. Urgent matters at his estate require his immediate attention. However, he has sent along this gift and hopes you enjoy your birthday celebration.” The man stepped to one side and gestured behind him.

Another attendant was in the courtyard behind him, along with three horses. As he watched, the other man brought one horse forward to present. It was a young horse, with long, lean limbs and a sable coat that shone brightly in the late afternoon sun. Fidgeting hooves and quick eyes indicated its high energy levels. Although a bit small for Rogan to ride, it looked like it would be swift and would likely do well in the races. He’d have to hire a good trainer.

Rogan sighed in resignation. “Fine. Take it to the stables; one of the hands will help you settle it in.”

The messenger nodded and turned to leave. “And tell my uncle that next time he takes it upon himself to arrange a party for me, he better show his face.” Frustration was evident in his voice.

“Ah, yes mi’ lord, I will inform him.”

Rogan nodded and closed the door behind him before the messenger made it down the front steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is an original work by the team.
> 
> *x* instead of "x" indicates Nasir is speaking in his native language, Nixasi.


	3. Rogan

Incense and pipe smoke mingled together and hung heavily in the air. The scent, both musky and sweet, clung to the skin and muffled the senses. Guests lounged on plush cushions of red and gold, the chatter of conversation dulled by silk and velvet drapes. Candelabras enveloped the room in a warm, gentle light and created the illusion of an extravagant dream.

Rogan sat on a dais at the far end of the private entertaining hall. He chatted with the person to his right, an attractive man who could charm his way into any bed and out of any consequences that followed. Sir Elion Vanlithe was the only guest he had expressly invited. A distant cousin, he had grown up with Rogan and fought beside him on the battlefield. Even now, during the relative peace, they still regularly sought each other’s council and company.

Elion had recently been elected mayor of the largest city in Rogan’s province. He was detailing a proposal he wanted advice on. Rogan was only half paying attention, his eyes wandering over the crowd below the dais. Thankfully, his uncle had kept the party small, at least by court standards. Elion’s company alone would’ve been preferable, but he was painfully aware that events such as these often warranted guest lists in the hundreds. The two dozen or so filling the hall weren’t nearly as bad as it could’ve gotten.

Only the lords had been invited, each permitted to bring two guests of their own. Most brought friends from lower noble houses or extended family lines. A few chose to bring lovers or spouses, their affections obnoxiously obvious. Seriously, self-restraint would’ve been appreciated.

Guests sprawled on cushions lined up on either side of the hall. Food and drink trays were placed on low tables before them, regularly replenished by diligent servants. The center of the room was left open, allowing the entertainers space to put on their performances. Being an informal event, there was no seating arrangement. People gathered in small clusters according to their preferences in company. It delighted him that the lord he liked the least had courteously declined to attend. However, it did not please him that two of the most bothersome lords had decided to sit as close as possible to him.

Thalden Lukrana and Jondir Ravakran were the youngest of the Twelve Lords and were practically glued together at the hip. Known mischief makers, Rogan was one of their favorite targets. Their antics built upon each other as they competed to see who could get a rise out of Rogan first. He would never admit it, but he always felt a sense of triumph when he beat the brats at their own game. They would grumble as they left, having not provoked even the tiniest outburst from him

“What if we…you know? That would really get him.” Faint snippets of the young men’s conversation floated to his ears. No doubt planning their next prank on him. Best not to let his guard down that evening.

“No, that weekend won’t work. I need to go out to the Avaki’s farm to check their production.” Reclining against a stack of firm pillows, Rogan’s chat with Elion shifted to planning an upcoming hunting trip.

“Ha, must be difficult being a lord. You never have any free time.” Elion laughed heartily. He was always so carefree, despite his new responsibilities. 

Two men in the center of the room were juggling swords to the upbeat jig the band played. Most everyone was engrossed in their own conversations. Desperately trying to recapture interest, the jugglers picked up their pace with the band following suit.

Rogan only brought his attention back to the entertainers when he heard the music stop. Probably worried the jugglers would injure themselves, the troupe master halted their performance and was ushering them off to the side.

Standing in the center of the room, he cleared his throat before addressing the now curious audience. “My most gracious Lords, we of the Laughing Sun Troupe have a special treat for you tonight! Our next performer hails from that frigid land to the north and was specially trained for esteemed guests, such as yourselves. We hope you enjoy!”

The portly man stood back to make way for another person. Almost gliding, a slender figure in a hooded cloak moved to the center of the room. Standing with their back to Rogan, a hush fell over the room as everyone waited for the mystery person to begin. Slender white arms rose above their head in an elegant pose as the band struck a deep, resonant chord and time

seemed

to

slow.

Falling to the floor, the cloak pooled around the dancer’s feet. A waterfall of silver hair cascaded down his back, mostly covering a tangle of old, silvered scars. The band played another chord, the sound reverberating through Rogan’s bones right into his core. Swaying his hips, the man began moving his arms through the air, creating intricate patterns that resembled circles, flowers, and leaves floating through the air. 

Silver bands highlighted strong curves in his upper arms and shoulders while light glinted off a slave cuff on his right wrist. The dark silver locus metal was thick but elaborately decorated. Etched into the metal were complex flowing designs. From this distance, Rogan couldn’t make out exactly what the depictions were, possibly vines or waves. A deep purple voca stone was placed in the center, and smaller amethyst pieces studded the top and bottom edges. 

As the slow melody began, he extended one slender leg, his skirt falling away to reveal everything up to the curve of his hip. The garment was little more than scraps of fabric draped from a belt slung low on his hips. Strings of small metal bells and glass beads dripped off it, chiming softly along with the silver hoops around his delicate ankles. 

The music created a low humming throughout the room, occasionally punctuated by the light tinkle of chimes. It swelled and dropped in time with the dancer’s practiced steps, flowing from one to another like a gentle breeze. Every muscle was expertly controlled, creating deeply sensual movements that Rogan tried not to let his mind linger on. 

However, it was proving difficult to keep his mind in line. The way the Nix moved his hips, his long legs and graceful movements were hypnotizing. Bringing both hands together in the air, he skimmed his fingers lightly along one arm, across his chest and continued the movement into a wide arc. A breath caught in Rogan’s throat when the Nix followed the arc into a turn, and he was finally able to see him properly

A wide silver collar accentuated his slim neck, more beads draping down across his lean torso. His face was as slender as the rest of him. Nix were known for their delicate features, but he was still exceptionally beautiful. High cheekbones, a thin nose and delicate lips. Lips that held not even a trace of a smile. But that didn’t detract from his beauty, if anything it made him seem mysterious and aloof. Rogan noted all this in a passing glance, because something else had caught his attention.

His eyes.

Pale blue, like glacial ice in the northern mountains, and just as cold. Not the kind of coldness he usually saw in slaves’ eyes, though. They usually still held venom and hatred as well. This man’s eyes were a different kind of cold.

_Empty. Desolate._

As if the soul that once resided there had perished and what was left had frozen over. The eyes of someone who was only going through the motions of being alive, a puppet on a string.

When those eyes glanced up and met his, Rogan felt his heart twist in his chest. There was a flicker of something indiscernible there. It disappeared just as quickly, emptiness returning as the gaze slid past him indifferently. Maybe it had just been his imagination.

Entranced, Rogan’s eyes followed every move he made. He felt as though he was watching the physical embodiment of autumn leaves dancing in the wind as the man twirled around the room. This Nix had to have been the slave he met in the locked wagon the night before. The dance drew Rogan in just as effectively as the song had. 

Vaguely, he registered faint snickering off to his left. “Quite a beautiful dance, don’t you think Lord Valquin?” Lord Lukrana’s voice sounded distant to Rogan’s ears.

It took longer than it should have for Rogan to process the question and mumble a reply.

“Yes. Quite…beautiful…”

More snickering, but he wasn’t really paying attention anymore. Nothing the two were saying mattered at that moment.

Too soon, the dance ended, and guests resumed their conversations. More mundane entertainers took the floor and were promptly ignored as they had been before. The Nix slave performed twice more, although after having seen the first dance most people paid little attention to him now. 

Rogan, however, devoted all his attention to every dance.

* * *

Rogan let out a relieved sigh as the last lord and her wife left the hall to return to their room for the evening. Entertaining always wore him out and, depending on the company, he would be more exhausted after a party than he was after a battle. He had wanted to go to bed hours ago, but etiquette dictated the host remain until every last guest had left. Midnight had come and gone by the time he started off towards his room. 

“How are you holding up, mi’ lord?” 

Fiora’s gentle voice suddenly floating up from beside him made him jump. He hadn’t heard her approaching, which meant he was a lot more tired than he initially thought. Images of the Nix slave dancing through his mind hadn’t helped either. 

“Ah, Fiora. I’m fine, just tired. Lord I’m-above-everyone-else Cyran wasn’t here, so the evening was less unpleasant than it could have been.” Those two brats, however, seemed to have been scheming again when they exited the hall nearly an hour prior. He would not be surprised if he came across some sort of prank either that night or the next morning. 

Fiora smirked. She knew exactly how much her lord hated formal functions. He was a man who preferred meaningful conversations over idle chatter and fake smiles. “Perhaps some tea before bed would help you unwind?” she offered. 

Rogan smiled at her as they continued down the hall to his room. Fiora’s homemade blend was exceptional for easing weariness. “Yes, please. It would be much appreciated.” 

A breeze wafted through an open window in the hall, ruffling his and Fiora’s hair. It was refreshing after the smoky warmth of the entertainment hall. “I’ll make some and bring it over right away. Also, mi’ lord,” she paused as they stopped outside his bedroom door. 

Rogan looked over at her and waited for her to continue, one hand on the doorknob. 

“You don’t _have_ to play their game, you know. Not if you don’t want to. There’s nothing wrong with being the eccentric, reclusive lord.” Her voice was warm. Another tired smile crossed his lips. He knew she cared for and worried about him, but life just wasn’t so simple. He didn’t know if she simply didn’t understand that or if she was so recklessly brave that she didn’t care about consequences. He liked to think it was the latter. 

“I know, but this way is so much easier. Playing their game every once in a while keeps them off my back the rest of the time. It also prevents them from getting suspicious about me.” Not that there was anything to be suspicious about, but idle minds had deadly imaginations. 

She studied his face for a moment, noting the tired lines and tense set of his jaw, before nodding. Now was not the time to push the subject. “If you say so, mi’ lord. I’ll return soon with your tea.” 

With that, she turned, skirts spinning around her legs. She headed back down the hall towards the kitchen at a brisk pace. Watching her go, he wondered once again what he would do without the woman. 

Turning back to the door, he debated if he wanted to bathe first or just fall directly into bed. He could always wash in the morning, and he honestly wasn’t sure he could stay awake long enough to deal with it now. As the door swung open, however, the scene before him brought that line of thought to a screeching halt. 

Lords Lukrana and Ravakran were sitting on either end of the small couch that faced the entryway. Sprawled on his stomach between them was the Nix slave. Whatever clothing he had been wearing was removed and discarded in a pile on the floor, leaving only the slave cuff on his wrist. 

Lukrana’s fingers had a tight grip in the man’s hair, forcing his head down to swallow his cock completely. On the other end out the couch, Ravakran was appreciating the view while idly fingering the man. The Nix’s eyes were shut tightly, and he gripped the edge of the couch so hard his knuckles were turning white. It was painfully obvious he wasn’t enjoying the treatment the other two were giving him. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Rogan’s voice was low, dangerous, edging into an outright growl. Sexual abuse of Nix slaves was almost commonplace, but he had never participated in or condoned it. He never expected it to be thrown in his face, and the sight made his blood boil. For some reason, the fact that it was this particular slave being treated this way made him all the angrier. 

“Lord Valquin! It’s about time you joined us, we were beginning to think you’d died in the hall.” Lukrana chuckled and gave him a broad smile. Rogan wanted to smash his teeth in. 

“We got you a little present.” Yanking harshly on his hair, Lukrana pulled the Nix off his cock with sickeningly wet _pop._ “We even took the liberty of preparing him for you.” Ravakran emphasized Lukrana’s words with a sharp thrust of his fingers. Gritting his teeth, the Nix choked back a gasp and tears formed at the corners of his eyes. 

Rogan stepped forward unconsciously, having to hold himself back from grabbing the Nix and pulling him away from the cruel hands. If he did that, or if he hurt the other lords, they might suspect him of being a Nix sympathizer and a traitor. From there, the situation could only get a whole lot worse. 

“No one asked for your gifts.” 

“Come now, Rogan, we saw how entranced you were with him at the dinner. Don’t tell me you don’t want to play with him.” Wiping tears from the Nix’s face, Lukrana grinned down at the slave like a kid with a new toy. The Nix opened his eyes to stare blankly up at his tormentor. 

Ignoring the comment, Rogan observed the Nix. “What have you done to him?” 

Something was clearly wrong with him. Though he was looking up at Lukrana, his eyes were glazed over as if he wasn’t registering what he was seeing. His skin was flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing rapid and shallow. 

Ravakran answered his question this time. “Oh, this? It’s nothing really. Just something to help the whore along.” Lukrana released his hold on the Nix’s hair when Ravakran grabbed the back of his neck. Pulling roughly, he forced the Nix up onto his knees, practically sitting on the lord’s lap. 

From this angle, Rogan could see that the Nix was fully erect. The skin was an angry shade of red and he was probably so hard it hurt. “The troupe leader said he won’t get hard without this drug in him.” Ravakran explained. Pulling his fingers out of the Nix, he reached around and gripped the base of the man’s cock tightly. The Nix couldn’t hold back a groan of pain that tapered off into a whimper. 

“It’s not strictly necessary for him to be hard for you to take your pleasure,” Lukrana commented. “But we thought you might enjoy the sight of this pretty face crying and begging you to let him cum. Pity we won’t see if for ourselves, but he is a gift after all.” 

He laughed, the sound vile and grating against Rogan’s ears. Unable to hold himself back anymore, Rogan stepped forward and grabbed Lukrana by the collar. He dragged the man up from the couch and growled in his face. “Thalden, you’ve gone way too far this time! I’ve ignored your harmless pranks up to this point, but now you are meddling in my personal affairs. My business is my own, and if I want a someone, I’ll see to it myself. Now, get out of my room before I break your damn legs and throw you out the window.” 

Irritated, Lukrana shoved him back and Rogan released him. “So touchy,” he said, straightening his shirt and trousers. “You’re such a prude, Rogan. Take this opportunity to let go of those righteous morals of yours and just have some fun.” 

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small glass vial containing a blue liquid. He set the vial on the small side table next to the couch. “We got you some extra stimulant for the slave, should you need it. It’s very potent, so use it sparingly.” 

Then he turned and motioned to Ravakran, who promptly stood. The movement dumped the Nix forward onto the couch. They passed Rogan and headed for the door. Over his shoulder, Lukrana added, “He’s paid for until morning, so take your time. You’re welcome.” 

Rogan glared at them as he turned and watched them slip out of the room, the door slamming shut behind them. 


	4. Nasir

Nasir dimly registered the sound of the door slamming through the haze in his head. His conscious mind had already retreated to the safe space hidden deep within himself. He had learned years ago that if he shut off his thoughts and emotions and just did as he was told, that it made the torment survivable. At first, he needed the aid of the drug’s effects to help him reach this point, but now slipping into the numbness was second nature to him. He could do it even when he wasn’t using any aids. Even the physical effects of the drug were something he could ignore now, the heat of his skin and the painful arousal in his lower region just a dull throb that his mind shoved to the side. He numbed out more often than he was conscious these days and had already resigned himself to living this way until his master or a client either left him for dead or killed him themselves. 

There was only one man left in the room now, presumably another lord, who was glaring over his shoulder at the door that had slammed behind the other two. One of the men that left had said something to the remaining man, something about taking his time. His words didn’t matter though. Fast or slow, one man or three, Nasir had been through it all before. 

Moving more out of habit than thought, Nasir slid off the couch and to the floor. On all fours, he crawled towards the remaining lord while he was still looking away. The man was grumbling something under his breath, but Nasir ignored it as he kneeled before him, knees spread wide apart just like he’d been trained. 

He didn’t wait for the man to give any orders. From experience, he knew that clients didn’t like having to explain what they wanted and having to do so would only make them angry. Anger meant more pain for Nasir, and while he was used to it, that didn’t mean he wanted any more than was necessary. So, without hesitation he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the man’s groin, hands on the floor to steady himself. Nasir felt him jump, surprised by the contact, but he didn’t let that stop him from mouthing at the man’s cock through the trousers. 

He held back a cringe as familiar feelings of disgust and self-loathing welled up inside, just as they always did when he performed such acts. He crushed them back down with the rest of his thoughts to deal with later in one of his rare moments of clarity. Through his haze, he managed to notice that the lord wasn’t even a little bit hard from watching the earlier display. That was odd, usually those types of shows got people eager for more. But maybe he was just slow to rise. It wouldn’t be the first time Nasir had been bought in an attempt to treat impotence. 

Nasir gasped when strong hands gripped his shoulders and forced him away from the lord’s body. The movement was firm enough to startle him but not enough to hurt. He almost looked up at the lord, but quickly caught himself and bowed his head in submission, waiting for those hands to force him into some new position. 

_“What are you doing?!”_

The deep voice was warm but tinged with shock and…horror? That couldn’t be right. No, had to be some sort of anger or something. The jolt of motion and tone of voice together was enough to break through some of the fog in his mind and bring back a hint of awareness. Even still, it took Nasir a moment to realize that the man actually wanted him to give a reply. 

“I-I was hired to service you, mi’ lord…” His voice was thick and raspy from not speaking all day and then having a cock shoved down his throat. “I apologize if I did something that displeases you, mi’ lord. Please, tell me how you wish to take me.” 

Not daring to raise his eyes in case the lord took that as a challenge, Nasir waited nervously for the man’s response. After a moment, the lord just sighed and relaxed his grip on Nasir’s shoulders. The hands slid down to his upper arms and then nudged him, gently but firmly encouraging him up and back until he was seated on the couch. 

Nasir was confused. What sort of position did this lord want him in, and why was he being so gentle about it? Not that he was complaining, gentle was definitely preferable, but it was practically unheard of. Something in Nasir’s head was telling him this was a trap to get him to be more obedient. When he was properly seated, he tried spreading his legs to allow the lord access to any part of his body the man may want. The hands on his arms moved to grip his knees, in same firm-yet-gentle hold, and urged his legs back together. Then, to Nasir’s amazement, the lord released his grip and kneeled down in front of him. This man was an _Ignis lord_ , what in Nixali’s name was he doing kneeling before a Nix slave? 

Nasir turned his face to the side, trying to keep his gaze averted. The man reached up as if to touch Nasir’s cheek, but hesitated. A moment later, the hand was withdrawn. 

“What is your name, Nix?” His words were quiet, gentle, and he didn’t spit the term _Nix_ with any of the vulgar condescension the other lords did. He used it as if only because he lacked a better word. He could have said ‘slave,’ but he hadn’t. And there was something familiar about his soft voice, although Nasir couldn’t for the life of him remember why. 

He was still hesitant to speak, but the lord had asked him a direct question and he was obligated to answer. “Nasir, mi’ lord…” 

“Alright, Nasir, will you look at me? Please?” 

There was yet another surprise; an Ignis had never said ‘please’ to him before. Part of him still believed this was all an elaborate trick, but he obeyed and slowly turned to face the lord. 

The man in front of him was the definition of Ignis warrior. He was tall, with a sturdy body and strong muscles in his broad chest and shoulders that couldn’t be hidden by any amount of clothing. A short beard did little to soften the hard cut of his jawline while unusually long red hair framed his handsome face. Amber eyes were firm and unwavering as they stared back at him, but there was a heavy exhaustion hidden in those depths as well. Once their eyes locked, Nasir was surprised to find that he did not want to look away. 

There was no question in his mind that this man had fought for his people in the war. He must have killed hundreds of his brothers and sisters, and Nasir should hate this man like he did all the other Ignis. But, try as he might, he couldn’t muster up and ounce of hatred towards this man. There was a tinge of sorrow in his eyes, and stress lines had already begun carving themselves into his face. He carried himself with all the dignity a lord should have, but with an air of exhaustion as if he carried an enormous weight on his shoulders. 

“Good.” Offering him a small smile, the lord continued in that gentle voice. “My name is Rogan. Now, Nasir, I want you to listen to me carefully, alright?” 

Here it was, the explanation of what he wanted Nasir to do. The method in which he wanted to violate the slave that was bought for him. At least he didn’t seem angry about explaining, as Nasir initially feared. Maybe he wouldn’t be as bad as the others Nasir had serviced in the past. He nodded tensely, waiting for the orders. 

“No one is going to…‘take’ you tonight. Least of all me. You have my word, Nasir.” 

What? 

Nasir only stared at him blankly, not quite able to comprehend the words. Or, rather, not _believing_ them. He couldn’t have heard that correctly, could he? It almost sounded like this man…Lord Rogan…just promised not to touch him, but that couldn’t be right. Here was a healthy, strong Ignis lord who had been gifted an enemy slave to do with as he wished, and he was _rejecting the offer._ And not just turning it down, but on his _knees_ in front of said slave and promising _not to touch him._

This was so far from what he had been expecting that Nasir didn’t even know what to do. His mind was clearer now than it had been in a long time, having gradually worked through the haze to understand the situation. The drug was still in his system, trying to push him back into the fog, but he resisted it as best he could. 

The lord eyed him intently, giving Nasir some time to process his words. After a few heartbeats, he addressed the Nix again. “Nasir, what will happen if I send you back before the purchased time is up?” 

Nasir felt his whole body stiffen. Just the thought of going back now filled him with dread. Since he was already trained when he had been sold to the troupe, he had never disappointed a customer. Going back to his master early because the client didn’t want him would end in disaster for Nasir. 

His face must have revealed his anxiety as much as his rigid posture had because Lord Rogan’s expression sank into a grimace. “They’ll punish you?” 

Nasir nodded, trying to swallow down the lump that had formed in his throat. “Please…” he hated how small and desperate his voice sounded. “Please, don’t send me back mi’ lord…” 

Lord Rogan hummed in understanding. His eyes drifted to the door to one side of the room as he contemplated his next action. 

“Alright then, here’s what we’re going to do.” He nodded towards the door, then reached over and picked up Nasir’s discarded clothing. “There’s a washroom through there. We’re going to get you cleaned up and dressed, then you can sleep here tonight. But only sleep, understand? Can you stand?” 

Taking stock of his body, Nasir honestly wasn’t sure if he could. While his mind was relatively clear now, his body still felt weak. His hips ached, and the other discomforts of his lower region were something he knew would take many hours to dissipate if left alone. In these situations, he spent most of his time kneeling or being pushed to the floor or a bed. Standing wasn’t something he had to do much of. 

The lord stood and took a step back when Nasir moved to the edge of the couch. Tentatively, Nasir tried to stand. His knees buckled immediately, and for half a second, he thought he was going to hit the floor. But Lord Rogan was there to catch him. The Ignis’s embrace was warmer than that of any Nix, and his strong arms supported Nasir’s slight weight easily. 

Despite his gentleness, Nasir felt himself tense up in anticipation of a reprimand for falling. But the Ignis simply helped him back to his feet, murmuring gently in his ear that he should take it easy. 

With Nasir safely back on his feet, Lord Rogan leaned down a little so he could meet the Nix’s eyes again. “Is it alright if I help you?” 

He wasn’t entirely sure what the man meant by ‘help’ him. ‘Helping’ had meant many different things to clients in the past, but his tone was still soft, and he hadn’t done anything to Nasir up to that point, so he nodded his head in assent. 

The lord smiled at him again before shifting his hold on Nasir. His movements were slow, deliberately making sure Nasir could see where his hands were going and giving him room to pull away if he wanted. One hand stayed on his elbow, and the other moved to his waist. 

He began urging Nasir towards the door he had indicated earlier but paused next to the small side table. Nasir’s heart skipped a beat when the lord picked up the vial of familiar liquid and pocketed it. Hadn’t he said he wasn’t going to touch Nasir? Why would he need that otherwise? His mind was back on high alert the rest of the short walk to the washroom, wondering what the lord’s next move was going to be. 

True to typical aristocratic style, the washroom was larger than the wagon Nasir spent most of his days in. Yet, it was not the largest he had seen, nor the most luxurious. There was nothing outside of necessity in the room; only soaps, towels, and other grooming supplies. 

What was out of the ordinary was a series of clay pipes running along the walls that led to the tub, wash basin and commode. Nasir was momentarily distracted from his anxiety as he pondered their purpose while the lord helped him sit on a stool beside the tub. 

He didn’t have to wonder long, because Lord Rogan next moved over to the wash basin and pulled a plug from the bottom of the bowl. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the vial, uncorked it, and proceeded to pour the contents into the basin. The empty vial was thrown in a waste basket as he replaced the stopper. Then he pulled another one from a pipe on the wall above the basin, and clear water spilled from the pipe. 

When the basin was full, he cut off the stream of water by re-plugging the pipe. Reaching a hand into an opening beneath the basin, Lord Rogan lit a fire in his palm. He held it there for a few minutes, using his other hand to test the temperature. He didn’t speak to Nasir, but it also did not seem like he expected Nasir to be doing anything either. A light steam began to rise from the water, and Lord Rogan stifled the flame in his palm with a satisfied nod. 

Flicking excess water from his fingertips, he turned back to Nasir. “Be sure to use it before it gets too cold. There’s a towel there,” he nodded to the one hanging from a rung on the wall, “but there’s more in chest beside the washstand. Feel free to use as many as you need. Just hang them over the edge of the tub when you’re done” 

Nasir nodded to show he understood, but the lord made no move to leave. Was he waiting for something, or did he expect Nasir to clean up while he was watching? A strange look had come over the lord’s face, a sort of awkward frown and…a faint blush? Nasir mirrored the frown back at the him in confusion. “Is…is something wrong, mi’ lord?” 

As if caught doing something wrong, Lord Rogan quickly glanced away and cleared his throat. “Erm, ah, it’s nothing much but, you may want to take this time to, ah, _take care_ of yourself.” He vaguely gestured towards the area of Nasir’s lap. Oh gods, now _Nasir_ was blushing, something that hadn’t happened since he first became a slave. 

He, too, averted his eyes and nodded awkwardly. Lord Rogan cleared his throat again. “Right. So. I’ll leave these here,” Nasir’s clothes, which had been draped over the lord’s arm, were neatly placed on top of the towel chest. Then he gestured to two cords hanging beside the commode. “If you need to, pull the long cord to empty the basin and the short one to refill it. Take as long as you need. I’ll just be outside, so call if you need anything.” With that, he excused himself and left Nasir alone in the washroom. 

Nasir sat for a moment, taking in a few deep, grounding breaths. His body still felt heavy, but his mind was clear now. A million questions were flying around his head, but they all boiled down to two main ideas; who was this Lord Rogan, and why was he treating Nasir so kindly?

Most of the evening had been spent in usual haze of numbness, not particularly paying attention to who or what was going on around him. It was far easier to shut off his mind and simply do as he was told than to actually process all the that was happening to him. Sometimes, he would have a moment of clarity and realize months had gone by, while other times it felt as if this way of living stretched out endlessly into both the past and future.

Searching through his spotty memory, Nasir vaguely recalled seeing the lord at the celebration feast earlier. The man had been sitting at the head of the room, so that presumably made him the host. Nasir remembered locking eyes with him once during the first dance, and there had been an expression of awe and wonder on his face. He was no stranger to these looks, but usually they were mixed with perverse lust. Lord Rogan’s…hadn’t. Even more strange was that he hadn’t lost interest over the course of the evening, watching each of Nasir’s dances intently. Nasir couldn’t remember looking back up at the man, but he remembered the feeling of eyes following him every time he stepped back out to perform.

Something else was nagging at the back of Nasir’s mind. Lord Rogan’s voice was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he would have ever heard it before. Perhaps in the background of another celebration he’d performed at? No, that wasn’t likely, he would have remembered the feeling of being watched. So where was it from, and was it a good memory or a bad one?

Regardless, based on his expressions at the dinner and his current behavior, Nasir felt himself hesitantly trusting the lord’s promise not to touch him. He still didn’t know much about this lord or his motivations for treating Nasir like an actual person instead of a fuck toy. But he wasn’t likely to find an answer to that no matter how much he pondered it, and slaves didn’t get the right to ask questions.

So instead of dwelling on it, he pushed the questions from his mind and focused on the rather annoying state of his body. He glared down at his cock, still rock hard from the aphrodisiac, and hoped against hope that it would go away on its own.

No such luck.

Nasir knew how to make it go away, but he didn’t enjoy doing it. Touching himself had long since lost any pleasure it once had. Huffing in irritation, he used the edge of the bathtub to help push himself up. Using various hand holds provided by the towel rails and wash basin, he made his way over to the commode.

Getting his body to move was like trying to walk through thick mud. Each movement felt clumsy and sluggish, something he didn’t notice when his mind was hazy. Nasir recalled a time, more than a decade and a half ago, when his body felt light and agile. Back when he trained every day and was always prepared for battle. He wasn’t entirely out of shape now – he had to practice the dances he performed for the troupe and maintain the body type that appealed to customers – but his dances were not as swift or graceful as they used to be, and he was fairly positive that in his current condition he would lose any serious fight. His strength had waned, and his body had grown thin from years of only being fed the bare minimum to keep him alive. Shame and anger burned through him as he compared what he had once been to what he had become.

Finally reaching his destination, Nasir used one arm to prop himself against the wall to support his body while the other reached down to grip his member. Grimacing, he stroked himself once, twice, three times before he came into the basin of water below. A soft sigh escaped him as he felt an instant relief from the pressure that had been building inside him. Using the pull cords as instructed, Nasir absently watched the water swirl down the drainpipe and the basin refill.

Turning to the wash basin, he dipped a towel into the water and began wiping himself down. He cleaned off his hand and rinsed the dried sweat from his face and chest before turning his attention to his groin. Particular care was needed in this area; the drug was still in Nasir’s system and too much stimulation would easily make his previous problem return.

When he was as clean as he was going to get, Nasir struggled into the sheer pants he was provided when servicing clients. They were designed to be simple yet enticing. Easy to get off but no great loss if damaged. With practice, Nasir had found the easiest way to get dressed through the haze of drugs and pain was to take each movement slowly and carefully. Eventually, he managed to get his clothing in order, and was as ready as he could be to walk out and face the strange lord again.

Opening the door slowly, Nasir leaned on the frame as he looked around for Lord Rogan. The man was standing by the bed fiddling with something on the side table. He had changed out of his formal wear and into a simple sleep shirt and pants. The door made a slight creak as it swung open further, catching the lord’s attention.

The lord greeted him with a small smile. “Nasir, are you feeling a bit better? Would you still like help getting around?”

“Thank you, mi’ lord, I am feeling a little better. And…” Nasir dropped his gaze to the floor, “yes, I fear I do still need some assistance. I apologize for burdening you.” He wrapped his arms around himself as if that would hide the embarrassment that was seeping into his bones. He wasn’t entirely certain why he felt so ashamed asking for help. In the past, when he was too weak to walk, he knew no help would have been given even if he had asked. He would just lay in one spot until he’d recovered enough to stagger out, or if there was a schedule to keep a member of the troupe would simply come and drag him back to his wagon. Both situations should have been more humiliating-and they were, at first-but they had become the norm and anything else felt awkward. Especially when help was being so nicely offered by a person who gained nothing by doing so.

Lord Rogan crossed the room to Nasir, steps measured and steady. Just as before, he was careful in ensuring that Nasir could see where his hands were, one supporting an elbow and the other slipping around him.

“You are no burden, Nasir. I’m happy to help.” And he did genuinely sound like he meant it, smile growing a bit more, soft and gentle as flowers swaying in a spring breeze. Surprisingly, the hand around him remained chastely on his waist and did not wander any lower as they made their way across the room. Nasir realized that Lord Rogan had been equally well behaved when helping him to the washroom earlier.

Apprehension flickered through Nasir when he noticed they were heading for the large bed and not towards the small couch he had assumed would be where he slept for the night. Lord Rogan must have felt his tension because the hand at his waist squeezed slightly in what the lord must have thought was a reassuring gesture. He murmured softly in Nasir’s ear, “Calm, Nasir. I said I would not take you and I will not. I am a man of my word. The bed will be more comfortable and is large enough for both of us to sleep without touching.” 

Nasir did not reply, nor did he relax when the lord helped him into the bed. The kind act could still be an attempt to get him to relax and let his guard down, allowing the man to do whatever he pleased with his prize. Lord Rogan made sure he was comfortably propped up by the headboard and a pillow, a blanket draped over his lap.

A teapot and cup sat on the side table – likely what the lord had been fiddling with when Nasir came out of the washroom. Turning to them, Lord Rogan filled the cup and offered it to Nasir.

Nasir eyed the cup warily. Anything could have been mixed in with that tea, maybe something nastier than the usual aphrodisiac. However, as a slave, he was expected to accept anything the client gave him, no matter how potentially unpleasant. 

As if reading his mind, Lord Rogan used Nasir’s moment of hesitation to lift the cup to his own lips and take a sip. “There, no drugs, no poison.” He offered the cup back to Nasir. “It’s just a tea to help one relax and sleep better. I actually requested it be brought over for myself before I knew you were here, but I think you could use it more.”

Tentatively, Nasir reached out and accepted the tea. The cup was warm in his hands, and familiar soothing scents of lavender, chamomile, and honey curled around his senses as he drank the golden liquid. Nasir closed his eyes and savored the feeling of warmth spreading through his body, allowing it to ease some of his anxious tension. After a few moments, he looked up and met Lord Rogan’s approving gaze.

Deciding to take a gamble, Nasir addressed the man in a quiet tone. “Mi’ lord, may I ask a question?”

Surprise flashed across the lord’s face momentarily before being smoothed over. Evidently, he had not been expecting such boldness from a Nix slave, but he did not appear to be angered by it. “You may, but I do not promise to answer.”

Nasir nodded. That was fair enough, he was lucky Rogan was even allowing him to ask, since a lord was under no obligation to answer the questions of a slave. “Why are you doing this? Being kind to me, I mean. I’m just a slave, something to be used however my master or client desires.” 

Rogan stared at him, thinking, so long that Nasir wondered if he indeed had chosen not to answer. But then a small sigh escaped his lips and he sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Nasir’s legs where they were wrapped under the blanket.

When he spoke, it was with the quiet voice people use when they think their words might upset someone. “Were you aware that I was a general in the war?”

Nasir had not known the lord was a general, but he had at least gathered the man was a soldier. He nodded.

“Well…” he puffed out a breath, trying to order his thoughts. Turing away, he gazed at the floor, eyes indicating he was seeing things that only existed in his memory. “In my time as general, I saw so much suffering. Not just soldiers, but innocent civilians who only wanted to escape and survive. It was on both sides, but mostly the Nix. So many Ignis hate the Nix, and they don’t even know why other than that is what they’ve been taught to do. No reason other than that’s how it’s been for as long as anyone can remember. But really, you’re just like us. My people and I have caused you and yours more suffering than you deserve, and I refuse to be a part of it any longer.”

Nasir sat astounded, staring at Rogan as words escaped him. He had expected something along the lines of ‘I don’t find you appealing’ or even ‘I don’t care for men.’ Not an admission of guilt and a show of true compassion, especially from someone who had every right to hate his people.

While still thinking of what to say, Rogan turned back to him. A smirk curled on his lips, but no amusement reached his eyes.

“Besides, I don’t have a particularly strong libido. I can count on one hand the number of partners I’ve had. I don’t particularly want any partner, let alone an unwilling one. Those two who paid for you commonly refer to me as Lord Prudish and enjoy pulling pranks at my expense. Though, this one goes much too far. Perhaps you could help me think of some way to get back at them?”

Nasir blinked, trying to picture this large man playing pranks like a rebellious child. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, and he quickly covered his mouth to contain it. It bubbled out anyway, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had honestly laughed. “Forgive me, mi’ lord,” he gasped out, “only, I did not take you for one who enjoys pranks.”

A hint of warmth returned to Rogan’s eyes, and soon his deep, rich laughter joined Nasir’s. “No, you’re quite right, I am not usually. But I need to do something drastic to get them to stop escalating their games, and I thought perhaps they would get the message if I spoke their language.”

Laughter subsiding, Nasir drew in a few deep, steadying breaths. “Apologies, mi’ lord, but I do not believe I will be of much help on that subject. I also do not go in for pranks.”

“Ah, well, nevermind then.” Rogan also calmed down. His gaze flickered over Nasir’s face, contemplating. It did not take long for Nasir to grow self-conscious.

“Mi’ lord?”

“Are you the one the troupe keeps locked in that prison wagon? The one who was singing last night?”

It suddenly clicked in Nasir’s mind why the lord’s voice was so familiar. “You were the one outside the wagon last night!” he exclaimed.

Rogan nodded. “I’d had trouble sleeping and went out for a walk when I heard your song and became curious. Speaking of sleep,” he stood, taking the empty teacup from Nasir and placing it on the side table before extinguishing the oil lamp. “It is very late, and we could both use some rest.” 

Walking around the bed to the other side, Rogan put out the second bedside light before climbing under the blanket. There was indeed plenty of space for them both without touching, and Nasir slid further under the blanket to get comfortable. 

“If you liked my song, would you like for me to sing for you again? While you fall asleep?” 

Pillows rustled as Rogan rolled onto his back and looked over at Nasir through the darkness. “Wouldn’t that be too much trouble? You should be resting.”

“Think of it as my thanks for your kindness, and an apology for drinking the tea meant for you.”

A huff of breath, not quite a laugh, carried through the shadows. “You owe me nothing, but if it really is no trouble, I would love to hear your song again.”

Nasir smiled even though Rogan probably couldn’t see it. He was fairly certain the Ignis wouldn’t know the words, the song being in his own language, but he chose a lullaby from his childhood that had a melody pleasant enough to lull someone to sleep. Keeping his voice soft, he let the words float lightly in the air around them.

_*As the sun sets, and the moon rises_

_And the stars come out to play_

_The birds atop their crests_

_Will sing their last goodnight_

_And it will be time for sleep._

_Lay down your head, let your mind relax_

_The Goddess will guide your dreams_

_And when the light comes back again_

_You’ll be given the precious gift_

_Of a bright new lovely day.*_

Nasir let the song trail off as Rogan’s breathing slowed and evened out. A few minutes later, he also drifted into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is an original work by the team.
> 
> *x* instead of "x" indicates Nasir is speaking in his native language, Nixasi.
> 
> The next chapter will be very short, so hopefully it'll be up faster! Don't forget I also publish the chapters in smaller parts more frequently for free on Tapas! https://tapas.io/series/The-Amaranthine-War/info


	5. Nasir

Nasir opened his eyes slowly; or, at least, he felt them open. Nothing but blackness stretched out before him, the shifting chill of shadows lapping at his skin. Sighing, he lifted a hand up and held it in front of his face, surprised to find he could actually see it even though it was more than a few inches from his face. Quite a long time had passed since he’d been able to see anything at all; even his own body tended to be swallowed up completely. 

He knew this was a dream. His least favorite, in fact, because not only was he dreaming of nothing, he was acutely aware of the nothingness. There was no bliss of oblivious unconsciousness, just him left alone with his thoughts in an endless ocean of shadows. This dream always left him feeling more drained than he had been before sleeping, but it thankfully had been a rare occurrence up until now.

Now, the dream had visited him two nights in a row, and he had no idea why or how to make it stop.

Racking his brain for what had triggered it, Nasir moved to sit and wait until the dream ended. His elbow knocked into something hard and solid, drawing a curse from him that came out silently as it was muffled by the void. 

Wait, that couldn’t be right. A solid surface? There’d never been anything in his dream besides himself. 

Half hoping the change was real, half not daring to believe it, Nasir reached a hand out to where he thought the object had been. It encountered a broad, flat surface, smooth like glass but cold as ice. Real and firm under his touch, it didn’t move an inch when he pushed on it. A wall of some sort? 

As understanding slowly sank in, hope mixed with apprehension twisted in Nasir’s stomach. Shifting to his knees, he pressed the other hand to the wall and spread them as far as he could reach, trying to gauge how large it was. Following it up as well, he determined the wall was definitely taller than him and extended an unknown distance on either side. 

Why would a wall suddenly appear? To trap him inside, or keep something else out? Was there something beyond the wall, or more blackness, and was it possible there were other things on his side of the wall he had never found? Questions buzzed around his head as he began moving along the wall, trying to find an edge. He had only gone a few steps when his hand brushed against a spot that was significantly warmer than the rest of the wall.

Getting closer to examine the area more closely, Nasir found that it was slightly wider than his chest and a couple inches taller than him. There was also a distinct feeling that the warmth was linked to something _alive_ , and as he stood there the patch moved under his hands, condensing slightly and heating up more in the center.

_‘Hello?’_ As always, his words remained silent as they slipped past his lips, but he hoped that whatever was on the other side had heard him anyway. That hope was made true when, a moment later, he detected a shift on the other side, like a beast focusing in on its prey. At the same time, emotions that were not his own washed over Nasir; there was no sense of hostility coming from the being on the other side, just concern mixed with an overwhelming desire to _protect_.

There was definitely something – or _someone_ – on the other side, and it had felt him and wanted to help. Until that moment, Nasir had completely resigned himself to his fate, his isolation, but here was a hand reaching out to him and begging him to reach back and take it. He wanted to grab onto the lifeline being offered and hold on with everything he had. 

But what if he took that hand, and later on it left? So long, he’d been alone for so long, he didn’t want to do it again – _couldn’t_ do it again. Not now that there was someone else here. They couldn’t go, he had to convince them to stay somehow, he _had_ to. Panic and fear started welling up in his chest, threatening to drown him. No, don’t go – please stay – can’t be alone – stay with him – _please –_

_‘I’m here!’_ he cried out, clawing at the wall like a caged animal. Whoever they were was just on the other side, he couldn’t just be imagining it. If he could just bring down the _damned wall_ , he could get to them, hold on to them and beg them to stay. 

_‘Don’t go, please, I’m right here!’_ His screams disappeared into the void like a soft exhale. Nasir pushed what little magic he could muster into the wall, trying to freeze it, break it, shatter it into a million sparkling pieces of ice. But not only did that not work, the wall seemed to latch onto his magic like a leech and suck out more than he had intended to give. Unbidden tears stung at his eyes as it pulled every last drop of magic out of him, along with his last hope of breaking through and reaching the other being.

The other entity’s emotions changed in response to his panic, offering reassurances and waves of soothing comfort, wordless promises that it wouldn’t leave him alone in the darkness. 

Nasir leaned on the wall, exhausted, sliding down it to pool on the floor, the other being following him. His muscles ached more than they had in a long time, and his fingers stung from fruitless attempts at tearing the wall down barehanded. The other was trying its best to wrap him in its warmth, like strong arms holding him close and protecting him from all the pain of the world. Curling closer, he let the feeling sink into his bones and lull him into a sort of calmness. Fear of abandonment still sunk its claws into him, but a whispered voice in his heart told him he was safe here, that he could trust this being.

Now that he was aware of its presence, Nasir knew he would seek it out every time he had this dream.

* * *

Nasir woke to the watery light of dawn filtering through the window, tears in his eyes and the dull ache of sore muscles all over his body. There was softness at his back and a draped canopy over his head instead of the usual hard wood of his wagon, and it took him a moment to recall where he was.

Slowly sitting up, he looked down at the lord lying next to him. Sleep softened the lines of his face, giving him a gentle, peaceful look. Recalling his dream, a realization dawned on him, both soft as a blooming flower and sudden as a crashing wave. This man had something to do with the change in his dream, he knew it in his heart. Nasir had shared a bed with countless other people, men and women, and not only did his dream not change, he almost never had it in the first place. This was the first time it had altered, and it was also the first time he had slept next to Lord Rogan. That couldn’t be coincidence. It was unclear why the deviation occurred, but he knew with the hard certainty of an immovable mountain that it was directly related to this man. 

Hard on the heels of this epiphany was the sharp, fracturing pain of understanding that this was the waking world and he now had to return to his master and life as a slave. The troupe would leave, his questions would go unanswered, and despite all the promises the other being had made, he would be alone once again. 

The new memories of the previous night and dream would be both a blessing and a curse, a moment of reprieve and hope that was cruelly snatched away again by fate. 

But that wasn’t Lord Rogan’s fault. He had been kind, respectful, and somehow helped him even when he was lost in the darkness of his own heart. Nasir would cherish those moments as long as he lived.

Being careful not to wake the sleeping man, Nasir leaned forward to rest his forehead on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmured, staying there for another moment to soak in the warmth of the Ignis’s skin before pulling away and climbing out of bed. Quiet as a ghost, he made up his side of the blankets and slipped out of the room, leaving behind the dream of their time together.


	6. Rogan

Rogan waited to open his eyes until he heard the soft click of the door closing. The ghost of Nasir’s gentle touch on his shoulder still lingered and his quiet words of thanks echoed in Rogan’s ears. It had taken everything in him to not stop Nasir from leaving, and he was at a complete loss as to why. 

Well, no, that wasn’t actually true. It was just hard to admit it, because admitting that he knew why meant that he knew why he was drawn to someone who should be viewed as an enemy. But he knew exactly why he wanted to keep Nasir close by, and it was because of more than just his desire to protect someone in need. 

The dream had changed, and his late-night guest definitely had something to do with it. On the first night, the presence had felt close, like it had been in his backyard. Or the courtyard. And then when Nasir had slept beside him, not only was the presence closer still, it had _noticed_ him. The timing lined up too much to be a coincidence. Could Nasir be the one beyond the wall? 

Rogan’s feet hit the floor with a hard thump as he rolled out of bed. There was no way he was going to lose the only person who might have answers about his mysterious dreams. Throwing on the first clothes he laid his hands on – a loose cotton shirt and trousers – he left his room quickly, immediately spying a familiar figure walking down the hall towards his room. 

“Fiora! Call for Lorsan, tell him to meet me in the courtyard as soon as possible!” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and marched towards the front of the mansion. 

When he reached the courtyard where the entertainers were packing up, he pulled aside the first person to cross his path and demanded they bring the troupe master to him. While waiting for them to return, he put on his strongest business face. Nasir was likely a valuable asset for them and they wouldn’t part with him easily, but Rogan was not going to back down. 

“Lord Rogan!” a boisterous voice called out to him. Turning, he saw the troupe master – his name was Salir, if Rogan remembered correctly – approaching him. An overly large smile was plastered on his face, just as greasy looking as his slicked back hair. Wide robe sleeves with gaudy embroidery fluttered in the breeze when he spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “How may I be of assistance on this fine morning?” 

Rogan tried for a polite smile, but it was as fake as Salir’s and probably came across as more of a grimace. “I would like to speak with you regarding your Nix slave.” 

Salir’s smile faltered a moment, and when he recovered himself his voice was tight. “Ah. Please, follow me, I will take you to him.” 

Rogan was slightly surprised that Salir would willingly show him the slave, despite the obvious displeasure about doing so. Usually, deals were made first and the persons traded told last. Rogan followed him through the camp to the slave wagon. Around them, people were scurrying about, packing and triple checking that luggage was secure. The whole camp was in a state of organized chaos as everyone prepared to move on to their next location. By the looks of it, they were almost ready to move out. 

Salir pulled a heavy key attached to a chain from his pocket as they walked up to the wagon. “Please, wait here a moment, mi’ lord,” he said as he unlocked the door. Even drearier from this angle, with the window on the other side, the wagon looked like the chest a child might keep their toys in when not playing with them. 

There was a rattling of chains from inside, accompanied by an indistinguishable snarl and sounds of a body being pushed around. Moments later, the Nix slave was thrown out the door. Hitting the ground hard, he couldn’t even break his fall because the shackles around his wrists were attached to a chain lead held by Salir. 

Stunned by the sudden violence, Rogan took a step forward ready to help Nasir up before remembering he was supposed to be impartial to the treatment of Nix. The troupe master was right behind the slave, anyway, using his long hair to pull him up into a kneeling position with his head bowed in submission. 

“I apologize if our slave has displeased you, mi’ lord,” Salir said, glaring at Nasir. “We do not issue refunds, but if you wish you may assist in his punishment.” 

“Puni- What? No!” Rogan exclaimed. Nasir flinched at his raised voice, and Rogan took a moment to regain his composure. “No, there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I am not displeased with his service – quite the opposite, in fact. I wish to buy him.” 

Salir’s gaze snapped up to Rogan. “You wish…to buy him?” 

Rogan nodded. “I do.” 

“No offense, mi’ lord, but I am not inclined to sell. You see,” he gave Nasir’s head a demeaning pat, like he would a dog, “he makes us quite a bit of money, and we’d take quite a hit to our income should we lose him.” 

Humming, Rogan pretended to consider his words. “How much does he bring in each year, approximately?” 

Salir smirked. “Between ten and eleven gold, give or take a few pieces.” 

“Impressive.” It truly was, considering most troupes only made one or two gold pieces a year. “Then I offer you thirty gold for him.” 

The troupe master’s jaw nearly dropped before he caught himself and covered his shock with a shrewd, calculating look. Probably trying to see if Rogan was bluffing, and if he was not, then guessing how much he could get out of the lord. But Rogan’s voice and expression held firm, and he was confident he had the money, no matter how much the sleazy man asked for. 

As expected, when he responded to Rogan’s offer, it was to fish for more. “I’m not certain we could find a replacement income with only three years buffer.” 

“Fifty, then. Surely five years income stashed away would be enough to tide you over until you find a replacement.” 

Rogan became aware of a presence behind him, and he didn’t have to turn to know it was Lorsan. The man was patiently waiting for Rogan to finish his conversation and address him, every inch the perfect head butler. 

“Sixty gold, and you give us a letter of credit to stock up on provisions in town on your account.” 

“Done.” Rogan answered without hesitation. Honestly, it was less than he had been expecting to pay. Turning to Lorsan, Rogan instructed him to go get the payment while Salir also called a troupe girl over and sent them to retrieve something. 

Salir snickered at Rogan while they stood waiting. “This is quite a large expense, mi’ lord. Tell me, is this what your people’s taxes are going for? Why are you willing to spend so much for one lowly slave?” 

“I have told you; I quite enjoyed his company last night. As you can see, I have no slaves of my own for entertainment. I’d previously thought them an unnecessary expense, but this one has shown me what I’ve been missing out on. I’d like to keep him for myself.” Rogan felt a twinge of disgust at the words, but it was imperative he make the act convincing. “As for the money, it is all from my personal reserves.” 

“Hmm…I see.” Salir contemplated, stroking a hand through Nasir’s hair proprietarily. Rogan was aching for the moment he could pull the Nix from that grimy grip. 

“I feel I should warn you,” he said, “when we first acquired him, there were some attempts to take his own life.” Rogan noticed Nasir wince slightly at the comment, but otherwise he did not move. “Not sure why he didn’t try to escape. Perhaps he is so broken he can’t even imagine freedom anymore. We put a stop to that right quick, and he hasn’t had any incidents recently, but he may try to test his boundaries with a new master. It’s best to keep him on a tight leash and discipline him with a firm hand.” 

Rogan could not trust himself to speak, so he responded with a curt nod. For a moment, he was worried Salir would continue to give him ‘advice,’ but he was saved by the return of the two they had sent on retrieval missions. 

Lorsan had brought back a heavy sack, a quill and a paper with Rogan’s seal on it. The girl Salir had sent handed him a small scroll and an amulet on a silver chain. Taking the quill and paper, Rogan used the side of the wagon to sign the letter of credit Lorsan had written up, giving it a quick once-over to make sure everything was in order. He was pleased that Lorsan had thought to use the wording ‘basic necessities’ so the troupe couldn’t clean him out. 

Exchanging the quill for the sack of gold, Rogan dismissed his butler and tuned to Salir to close the deal. 

“This is his contract of ownership,” Salir unrolled the scroll for Rogan to see its contents. “Here is the other half of the voca stone in his cuff, it has a range of about one mile. The key is in the back here.” Flipping the amulet over, he opened a small compartment in the back. A tiny key rested inside. 

Salir nodded to the girl still standing beside him. “Give the payment to her, then I will give these to you along with the key to his shackles.” 

Rogan handed the sack and letter to the girl. After pocketing the items Salir gave him, he took the end of the chain lead that was offered to him. 

“Nix,” the troupe master growled down at Nasir. “How do you greet your new master?” 

Silently, Nasir moved closer to Rogan and leaned forward until his forehead rested on the toe of his boot. 

“It will be an honor to serve you, Master Rogan. Please, use me how you see fit.” The words sounded dull, dead. Rogan barely felt the gentle pressure of Nasir’s lips when the Nix kissed his boot; he was too busy trying not to lose his temper over Nasir being forced to demean himself. Nasir sat up, still keeping his head bowed, and shuffled around on his knees until he was settled beside and slightly behind Rogan. 

“Well,” Salir exclaimed, clapping his hands together so loudly it made both the girl beside him and Nasir jump. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Lord Rogan, but we really must be off. We have some supplies to pick up in town and I don’t want to lose too much travel time.” Winking at Rogan like they were in on some sort of secret joke, he gave a bow that really was more grandiose than was necessary before turning away in a flourish. 

Taking the sack from the girl as they walked away, he cradled it to his chest with one arm and shouted orders to various troupe members. A few cast quizzical glances at Nasir sitting beside Rogan, but otherwise didn’t react to leaving him behind with a barely known lord. Within minutes, they had clambered into carriages and were making their way out of the courtyard. 

It took all his discipline as a soldier not to look down at Nasir as he watched their forms retreat down the road. The moment the last carriage disappeared around the bend, he dropped the chain on the ground with a loud clank of metal. 

Nasir’s eyes snapped up to meet Rogan’s when he dropped to his knees in front of the man, but only for a moment before averting his gaze again. Rogan noticed a slight tremor run through Nasir’s body. He had thought they had done well the night before but realized his act with the troupe master may have undone that progress. Some twisted, painful feeling gripped his chest when he thought that Nasir might be afraid of him. 

“Shhh, Nasir,” he soothed, reaching out a hand to gently rub one of Nasir’s shoulders. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I had to put on a tough act to get Salir to sell me your contract. You don’t ever need to avert your eyes from me.” 

Nasir’s gaze flicked up to Rogan’s face hesitantly, before looking back down at his lap. Now able to see his face properly, Rogan noticed a scrape along Nasir’s cheek from when he hit the ground earlier. 

Rogan decided not to push the subject of eye contact as he lightly brushed a thumb across Nasir’s cheek, just under the scrape. They would get there eventually. Instead, he turned his attention to the shackles still on Nasir’s wrists. Pulling the key from his pocket, he saw Nasir’s eyes widen as he unlocked the shackles and they clattered to the ground. 

Dropping the key among the discarded chains, he took both of Nasir’s hands into one of his own. With the other, Rogan placed the amulet in Nasir’s open palm. 

“Listen, Nasir,” he used the same soft-but-firm tone that had worked the previous night. “If you decide to stay here, you will not be treated as a slave. You would be a servant, like the others, with a room of your own, meals, and a paid wage. The voca stone and key are yours to keep, and you are free to remove the cuff whenever you are ready.” Nasir did look up at this, and Rogan met his shock with a smile. “Although, you may want to wait to do that until I can get a fake made for you. It may be safer that way, but the final decision is yours.” 

Rogan waited patiently for Nasir to respond. He had just given him a lot to process in a very short amount of time. 

Nasir’s hands trembled and his voice was unsteady when he finally spoke. “If…if I decide…to stay?” 

“Yes. I’m not going to force you to stay. Technically, I hold your contract.” He brushed a thumb over the band of silver on Nasir’s wrist. “We could have a cuff made with a fake long-range stone in it, and you could always say you were out doing work for me. If anyone were to ask, I would always back up your story. You can go anywhere, even back to Nix territory if you want.” 

Nasir stared at him, looking like a lost child who didn’t know where to turn or what to do. The trembling in his hands spread to the rest of his body and his breathing became more rapid. Rogan could see the rising panic in his eyes. 

“Nasir?” Rogan called, cupping the Nix’s face in his hands and looking into pale blue eyes that were very far away. “Nasir! Come on, listen to my voice, come back to me. Breathe with me Nasir. In,” Rogan inhaled slowly, and Nasir drew in a shuddering breath to match it. “Good, Nasir. And out. Again.” 

They kneeled on the ground of the courtyard, breathing together, until the tremors settled, and Nasir started coming back from wherever his mind had taken him. 

“I-I’m sorry.” Nasir choked out. “I didn’t mean to-to forget myself. I’m just…it’s all so much and I-I don’t know what- I’m sorry…” The Nix was working himself into another panic, and Rogan was determined to not let that happen. 

“Nasir, it’s alright,” he let one hand brush through Nasir’s hair. Maybe a little too familiar, considering their supposed social positions and the fact they had only just met, but it felt right and seemed to be calming Nasir. “It’s a lot to take in all at once. It’s fine if you need some time to think things through.” 

Rogan internally cursed himself for not considering this reaction. The man’s freedom had been taken from him gods knew how many years, or decades ago. And here was Rogan, throwing open doors and windows of possibilities for him. Sometimes, suddenly having too many options could be just as terrifying as having them all taken away. 

“How about this,” he offered, trying to narrow down the choices to a manageable number. “Stay here for now. Work as a servant. I’ll have a false cuff made, but that will take time. Use that time to rest, to adjust. When you’re ready, you can start to think about the next steps. I’ll help you plan if you’d like. Or if you want to stay, you’re more than welcome to. You don’t have to make any decisions right this moment.” 

Nasir stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit. But Rogan knew he would find none, because he meant every word. 

Slowly, Nasir nodded. “Alright…I-I’ll stay. For now. Uhm…” he looked down at the amulet in his hands. “Would…would you hold onto this for me? Please? Just until I make a decision. I’m not…ready for it yet, I think. Besides, if someone finds out I have it, they’ll think I’m-” His spiraling explanation was cut short by Rogan smiling at him again and placing a hand over the amulet. 

“I understand. I’ll keep this with me, where it will be safe.” Looping the chain around his neck, he tucked the amulet under his shirt and out of sight. “When you’re ready for it, you need only ask.” 

Nasir nodded to him again, and in a small voice said, “Thank you, Lord Rogan.” 

Rogan beamed at him. Nasir was still lost, still fragile, but was meeting his eyes again for brief moments and seemed less afraid. Willing to let Rogan lead him, even if for now it was just from the habit of listening to his master. Trust, confidence, the ability to make his own decisions; all those things would come with time. 

“Come now,” Rogan took Nasir’s hands in his own again, helping the Nix to his feet. “Let’s get that scrape looked at, and then we’ll get you settled in.”


	7. Nasir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue in Nasir's language will be denoted with *x*, while dialogue in Rogan's language will be in "x".

Rogan led him back up the front stairway and into the main entry hall. A warm hand just barely rested on Nasir’s back, enough to guide him but in no way invasive or restricting. 

Not that Nasir noticed the touch, he hardly noticed they were even moving. Thoughts whipped around his head like a blizzard, but every time he reached for one it melted away in his hands. 

He was…free? Sort of? He could choose to leave or stay, and Lord Rogan wouldn’t stop him? The lord had paid quite handsomely for him and now owned him. No right-minded Ignis would be alright with their property just walking away. And why had he bought him in the first place? Out of pity? Did people do things like this for those they found pitiful? 

“Lorsan, Fiora, I’d like you to meet Nasir. He will be working as a servant here for the time being.” Rogan’s firm voice left no room for argument. 

Raising his eyes from the floor, Nasir peered through the strands of hair that had fallen across his face. Seeing the two Ignis waiting for them in the entry, Nasir took an unconscious step closer to Rogan and had to force himself not to press his body completely against the man’s side. Using a stiff bow, he hoped he managed to hide his sudden embarrassment. What a coward he had become. He had fought and killed countless Ignis on the battlefield, and now he was afraid of two house servants. 

The man was around the same height as Rogan, but not nearly as broad across the chest. His cold expression, neat clothing and perfectly styled short hair gave him an air of complete professional indifference. The woman was shorter, closer to Nasir’s own height. She seemed to be a hard worker, if her strong build, sensible clothing and tight, no-nonsense braid were any indicators. 

“Nasir.” Rogan turned to him and Nasir looked up a bit more, focusing on the man’s shoulder. He gestured to the man, who nodded to them. “This is my head butler, Lorsan. He is in charge of the serving staff, the grounds and stables, and the house accounts.” Then he moved to indicate the woman. “And this is Fiora, my head housekeeper. She’s a bit of a task master,” he chuckled at the glare the woman shot him, “but she’s reliable and fair. She’s in charge of the cleaning and kitchen staff.” 

Fiora looked him over appraisingly, Nasir shifting uncomfortably under her gaze, before turning to address Rogan. “He’s a bit on the thin side, mi’ lord, but nothing a few hot meals won’t fix.” Her face broke into a smile warmer than Nasir would have expected from the stern-looking woman. “I’m sure we can find a place for him.” 

Nasir felt Rogan relax slightly beside him. He hadn’t even noticed the man’s tension beyond his own; it was clear that, although she was a servant, this woman’s opinion mattered a great deal to the lord. 

“Is Merrik still in?” Rogan asked the pair. 

It was the man, Lorsan, who responded. “No, sir. He left at dawn to gather herbs in the forest. Something about needing to collect them while they still had morning dew.” Nasir could hear the barely-contained eye roll in the butler’s voice. 

“Ah.” Rogan nodded, as if this answer was no surprise. “Do you know if his general-use box was restocked after Sanev hurt his leg?” 

“It should be,” Fiora hmphed, crossing her arms. “He had my kitchen staff boil damn near every bandage in the manor.” 

“Excellent. I’m going to take Nasir to the workroom to take care of these scrapes then. Fiora, could you please find him a proper change of clothes? And Lorsan, please arrange for him to have his own room.” 

Lorsan nodded curtly to them, moving off down the hall, with Fiora flashing Nasir another quick smile before following him. 

Rogan and Nasir started following them as well, but soon turned down a hall going a different direction. In the past, Nasir would have tried to memorize the layout of the manor – which, in all honesty, was more of a small palace. Right that moment, however, Nasir was more preoccupied with trying to process recent events and figure out how to navigate his new circumstances. 

“Don’t worry about Fiora and Lorsan, they’re good people.” Rogan’s voice cut through Nasir’s thoughts like a beacon in the fog. The lord sighed. “I won’t lie, I’m hoping the majority of my staff will accept you, but I know there will be a few who will not want to treat you as an equal.” 

The hand on his back moved to gently squeeze his shoulder. “I’m going to make it known that anyone who mistreats you will be reprimanded or even fired, but if you have trouble with anyone, I want you to tell me, Fiora or Lorsan. I want you to feel safe here. Understand?” 

Nasir nodded. He understood just fine but was still working on the believing part. Everything from the previous night until that moment felt like a dream, like he was watching it happen to someone else. 

Rogan led them into a brightly lit room overflowing with potted plants and scattered books. A desk to one side held an assortment of strangely shaped glass bottles and ceramic jars, bundles of dried herbs, and a small altar. On the other side were a few crammed bookshelves and a single cot, a stool stored underneath it. The room had a faint medicinal smell that probably would have become overpowering if not for the breeze drifting through the open double doors at the end of the room, through which Nasir could see a garden arranged in neat rows. 

Walking over to the desk, Rogan indicated for Nasir to sit on the cot. “This workroom belongs to our live-in healer, Merrik. He’s one of Crescen’s gifted and grows all his own herbs there in the garden.” Rogan began rummaging through a box sitting on one end of the desk. “He keeps this box of first-aid supplies available for general use. Just for headaches and small cuts and such, though. For anything more serious, you’ll need him to take a look at you. He’s a bit gruff, but he’s good at his job.” 

Having found whatever it was he had been looking for, Rogan joined Nasir over at the cot, pulling the stool out so he could sit in front of the Nix. 

As he set about cleaning the scrape on his cheek, Nasir found it incredibly difficult to avoid making eye contact while the man was staring so intently at his face. Eventually, he decided to just shut his eyes and wait for the treatment to be over. 

Rogan’s hands were warm, his touch gentle. So gentle. Nasir couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him out of kindness instead of anger or lust. Letting himself focus on that for a moment helped temporarily wash away the confusion and anxiety. A strange sense of calm settled in over him; not the usual cold, empty type, but a warm feeling that was almost…safe? Yes, he felt safe, even though he had no reason to. He didn’t know for sure that he was safe. Lord Rogan had been nice, so far, but this could still all be a trick, or someone else in the manor could- 

*Nasir, can you hear me?* 

Nasir’s eyes flew open, staring bewilderedly at the man in front of him. Had he imagined that? It had been more than a century since he’d heard his native tongue. 

*Nasir?* Rogan said again, his concerned gaze searching the Nix’s face. *Are you alright?* 

*You…you speak Nixasi?* The words had been awkward, Rogan’s heavy accent weighing them down, but they had undoubtedly been Nixasi. Nasir had missed the beautiful, flowing lilt of his language so much that he nearly cried. 

*Yes?* Rogan’s expression turned to one of confusion. *Not as good as you speak Ignaen, but I know a little. Didn’t you know? I did say I liked your songs.* 

*I-I thought you merely enjoyed the sound. I hadn’t realized you understood the words.* 

*Yes, I learned it a long time ago, but can’t practice much.* His face grew serious again and he switched back to Ignaen, much to Nasir’s disappointment. “More importantly, how are you doing? I tried getting your attention a few times, but you didn’t respond until I spoke in Nixasi.” 

“Oh…” Nasir fidgeted awkwardly. “I-I’m fine, really. It’s just…this is a lot to take in. I’m still trying to catch up.” 

Rogan nodded in understanding. “I know it will take you a while to accept that you’re safe here, that you have options, but as I said earlier, take as much time as you need. Whatever is too big to deal with now, push aside for the moment and focus on something smaller. If you ever want to talk, then I’ll be here for you.” 

Nasir smiled weakly. Rogan probably meant those words, but he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to speak that freely with the lord. 

The lord whose eyes were currently scanning every inch of Nasir’s body. There was no heat in his gaze, only intense scrutiny, which was somehow worse. “Uhm, are you looking for something, Master Rogan?” 

Rogan’s eyes snapped back to Nasir’s face and held his gaze steadily. “First off, sir or mi’ lord are fine, that’s how most of my staff address me. I may hold your contract, but I am not your Master.” He waited for Nasir’s acknowledgement before continuing. “Secondly, I was checking for any other injuries. I see a few bruises, but they’re already healing. Is there anywhere else that hurts?” 

Taking stock of his body, Nasir determined that he was actually less sore than he was accustomed to, thanks to a whole night spent in a proper bed. Shaking his head, he said, “No, Mas-sir. I’m fine.” 

Frowning, Rogan scrutinized him carefully, as if he didn’t quite believe the Nix. “What about where the shackles were? Nothing chafed or sore? The truth, Nasir, even if it’s just a twinge.” 

Nasir grimaced; being able to ignore pain was what had made it bearable. First as a soldier, then as a slave. He did not like showing how much he hurt, but as this was the closest Rogan had ever gotten to a proper order, Nasir couldn’t exactly refuse. 

Slowly, he reached down and pulled up one trouser leg, revealing the ankle that had been chained when he was in the wagon. The manacle the troupe owned when they had acquired Nasir had been slightly too small for him, and the master had never bothered to buy a new one. It had rubbed his skin raw, constantly reopening the wounds and occasionally getting infected. That was the only time the master ever did anything about it, because he lost money if his slave couldn’t dance. But even then, all he had done was switch it to the other ankle. The result were rings of angry, red scars around his ankles, with the most recently bound one still raw and tender to the touch. 

A sharp intake of breath made him glance up at Rogan. “Oh, Nasir…” he breathed, so softly that Nasir barely heard it. An ashamed blush spread across Nasir’s cheeks, which he tried to hide by looking down and allowing his hair to fall in a curtain around him. He knew most found him to be a pitiful site, but knowing this man thought the same hurt more for some reason. 

Carefully, Rogan pulled Nasir’s foot up to rest on his knee. He was as gentle as was possible when he set about cleaning the wound. With Rogan’s attention now on his ankle, Nasir took the chance surreptitiously examine his new master – or, employer? – more carefully. 

He had noticed the night before that the Ignis was strong; strong enough to seriously hurt Nasir should he be so inclined. But he hadn’t. He seemed to dress simply – even his formal wear the night before had been simpler than other lords – but the plain clothing only served to give his prominent features a sort of rugged charm. In all, Nasir figured prospective partners likely threw themselves at Lord Rogan. 

Nasir had never felt attraction to another. Before becoming a slave, he had lived a voluntarily abstinent life, and everything after had been forced against his will. But, if he were to ever be attracted to someone else, it would probably be someone like Lord Rogan. A face that was serious, but kind. Strength that could break bones, but chose not to. 

A knock on the door interrupted his contemplation, for which Nasir was grateful. His thoughts had been straying very close to something he wasn’t ready to even acknowledge, let alone deal with. 

Fiora was standing in the doorway, a bundle of fabric in her arms. An odd look crossed her face when she saw Nasir’s foot in her lord’s lap, being delicately tended to. 

“Mi’ lord, I’ve brought some clothes for him. There are a few sizes, since I didn’t know what would fit best. We can get him fitted for boots after this, and Lorsan is having one of the rooms cleaned up for him now.” 

“Good.” Rogan lowered Nasir’s foot to the floor again. “He can change as soon as I’m done treating him. Is the other ankle just as bad?” 

Shaking his head, Nasir lifted the other trouser leg to show him the healed-over scars. Rogan sighed heavily and nodded. “May I check your wrists?” 

Holding out his wrists for inspection, he noticed for the first time the bruises blooming across them from where the cuffs had jerked on them as he was thrown from the wagon. Taking hold of one, Rogan massaged a sweet-smelling salve into them. They hadn’t hurt much, but the cool tingling of the medication and the steady pressure of Rogan’s fingers working it into his skin were soothing, nonetheless. 

“Do you know where you’ll assign him yet, sir?” Fiora asked, setting the clothes on the cot before moving to stand beside Rogan. 

“Not yet, but I’ll figure something out.” 

“Hmm…Do you have any special skills? What did you do before you were captured? Or were you always in…ah…service?” 

It hadn’t registered to Nasir that she had been addressing him until Rogan called his name and repeated the question. He hesitated. How much was safe to tell these people? He only had a moment to think about it as Rogan finished up and stood to put the supplies away, leaving him alone with Fiora’s pointed stare. 

“I…was a soldier. I did fight, like everyone, but I mostly handled logistics. Troop movement, supply division, those sorts of things. But it’s…it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like that.” 

“How long is ‘a long time’?” 

“Since I was captured…during The Fall…” 

The crash of breaking glass nearly startled Nasir right off the cot. “Sorry!” Rogan grinned sheepishly at them. “I accidentally dropped the salve pot, it landed on another bottle. I better clean it up, or Merrick will chew my ear off.” Rummaging through a few drawers, he pulled out a hand rag. “Fiora, let Nasir get changed now, questions can wait for later.” 

Fiora frowned at him but moved to the end of the room that was open to the outside. She turned just before going out and opened a door in the corner that Nasir hadn’t noticed before. Pulling a folding screen from what must have been a storage closet, she moved back to them and set the screen up around the cot to give Nasir some privacy. 

“Try on those clothes, and hand anything that doesn’t fit around to me.” She said through the screen. 

“Uh, yes ma’am.” Nasir turned to the bundle of fabric, sifting through it until he found something that looked like it might fit. The clothes were not extravagant in the least, but they were nicer than anything Nasir had worn in years. 

Pulling on a shirt, Nasir was surprised to find it much too large for him, hanging loosely from his frame. He was struck with the realization that it _would_ have fit him, back when he had last chosen clothing for himself. Had he really not noticed how thin he had become? 

As he pulled the shirt off and looked for something smaller, Nasir heard Rogan and Fiora speaking to each other in hushed tones. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, and it wasn’t his place to be curious, but he wondered what they were discussing all the same. Was it about Rogan’s strange bout of clumsiness? He had known the man for less than a day, but he could already tell that the lord was not easily flustered.

Nasir had finally found clothes that fit properly – beige breeches, a white cotton shirt, pale green tunic and a darker green sash – and was pulling them on when Rogan raised his voice to be heard through the screen. “Nasir, I have to attend to the remaining guests, so unfortunately I must leave you. Fiora is going to get you settled and show you around. You’ll stay with her today, and tomorrow we’ll get you properly assigned, alright?” 

Stepping out from behind the screen, Nasir didn’t miss the satisfied expression in Rogan’s eyes as the lord looked him over. “Yes, mi’ lord.” Nasir bowed deeply in acknowledgement. 

He heard Rogan sigh quietly, again, but it was Fiora who spoke. “Oh, come now, there’s no need to bow so low.” 

Looking up, Nasir barely contained a flinch when he saw how close Fiora had gotten. She smiled at him conspiratorially, “If you keep doing that, you’ll make our lord uncomfortable. You see, he’s rather awkward when it comes to all that formal stuff. A simple nod will do.” 

Blinking at her, Nasir hazarded a glance at Rogan. She had just _insulted_ her employer, and yet, while Rogan’s frown and crossed arms showed displeasure, an air of amusement danced around his expression. 

“There’s no need to tell him _all_ my secrets on the first day.” 

“Well, of course not!” Fiora feigned a gasp. “I have to leave _some_ secrets to tell later!” 

To Nasir’s shock, the lord laughed outright at her cheek. “Alright, enough jokes now. Be gone, the both of you, and leave me to the misery of social convention.” Fiora returned the laughter as he ushered them out the door. Rogan waved at them as he strode off down one hall, leaving a bewildered Nasir alone with the willful housekeeper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, or have questions/suggestions, let me know in the comments! Happy Halloween everyone!


	8. Nasir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Sorry for taking so long, and happy holidays to everyone!
> 
> To find out how you can read ahead and get bonus content, check out my Instagram! @m.stone0875

“This way!” Fiora sing-songed, motioning for him to follow her, which he did after a moment of collecting himself. They went down the same hall Lord Rogan had, but his long strides had already carried him out of sight. “There’s a servants’ passage under here,” Fiora tapped a toe to the floor of the hall, “but we only really use it during events. The rest of the time it’s only the Lord here, and he prefers us visible in our duties.” Her laughter was loud and free, not a drop of reserved politeness in it. “He says if all the chores got done but he never saw who did them, he’d start thinking he lived in a haunted house.” Her comment drew a slight smile from Nasir.

Several turns and doors later, she led him into what looked like a scullery. Large wash tubs set at various heights lined one wall, the floor there dipping and leading into drainage channels, and more of the odd clay pipes ran along the walls. Fiora explained that the water came from the nearby river via a series of pumps taking water to collection towers on the roof, which then flowed into the various pipes of the building. It had required major renovations and, so far, only two lords had implemented the system. Against the other wall was a myriad of blanket chests, linen closets and china cabinets, all clean and ready for use.

Opening one closet, Fiora pulled out a couple pairs of boots, holding them up to Nasir’s legs to compare sizes. “So,” she hummed, “you’re aware our Lord was a general, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Fiora tutted and fluttered her hand in dismissal. “None of that, just Fiora will do.” She put the boots away and pulled out different ones. “Anyway, you’ll likely hear more about this later, but let’s just say that the topic of The Fall is one his Lordship doesn’t particularly like to discuss.”

In Nasir’s experience, soldiers involved in The Fall enjoyed boasting about their accomplishments in that battle to anyone who would listen. Curiosity piqued, Nasir couldn’t hold back from asking, “Why?”

He accepted the boots Fiora held out to him, balancing on one foot to start putting them on, while a frown pulled at her face.

“Well, you see, his division was the one that breached the wall.”

Nasir stumbled and nearly fell over, grabbing onto a closet handle to catch himself while he stared at Fiora with wide eyes. _“What?”_

The housekeeper sighed, looking suddenly like a tired mother who didn’t know how to help her hurting child. “The rest of the country might call him a hero, but it’s…it’s not something he’s proud of. And if he promised not to hurt you, then he won’t. You may not believe me now, but I hope, with some time, you’ll come to understand him better. Just give him a chance.”

Mind reeling from what felt like the hundredth revelation of the day, Nasir could only nod and finish putting on the boots. He absently followed Fiora back into the hall as he tried to reconcile the gentle lord he’d met just the night before with the legendary vicious warrior that had broken through the walls surrounding his home, allowing Ignis forces to flood the city. The man who had laid waste to the last stronghold of his people, bringing the war to a bloody tipping point. Was it possible for them to be the same person? How was Nasir supposed to face Lord Rogan now, let alone try and trust the man?

“What’s this, then?”

The booming voice broke Nasir out of his anxious spiral, and he glanced around to find himself in a kitchen. In front of him stood a towering woman who looked like she belonged more on a battlefield than in a cook’s apron.

Fiora smiled broadly. “This is Nasir,” she announced, voice ringing out in the sudden quiet of the kitchen and daring anyone to challenge her. “Lord Rogan has just taken him on. His orders are to treat Nasir the same way you would any of your other fellow servants. Everyone understand?”

“Why would we treat one’a _them_ with the same respect we treat one’a _us?”_ called a man with a nasally voice who leaned against the back door. Two others stood by him, exchanging warry glances with each other. He pushed off the wall and stalked towards them, Nasir noting how he walked with a slight limp in his right leg.

Stopping much too close, Nasir could smell the stale stench of alcohol on his breath when he spoke. “Did the Lord finally give in an’ buy ‘imself a fucktoy? He must ‘ave paid handsomely for a pretty thing like you. Must not want us to damage the goods.” The sneer he directed at Nasir was sickening.

Forcing her way between them, Fiora glared at the man even though he was a head taller than her and smiled at him venomously. “I’m sure I don’t know why the Lord took him on, but it’s not my place to question him.” A lie, Nasir was fairly certain Fiora could question Lord Rogan all she liked and get away with it. “If you have a problem with his orders, you can take it up with his Lordship himself. If not, I suggest you get back to work. And lay off the drink, you smell like the bottom of a barrel.”

For a moment, Nasir thought the man would snap back at Fiora. But he just swallowed his words, sent a glare Nasir’s direction, and turned to storm out the back door. The other man and woman he had been chatting with followed him out.

The kitchen remained silent as the remaining few people stared at them. Nasir looked down at his new boots, avoiding all eye contact lest it provoke someone else. Finally, the soldier-cook barked at the others, “Alright, show’s over, back to work!”

Broken from their trance, everyone began bustling about again and talking amongst themselves. Turning back, the large woman looked down at them. “And you,” she addressed Nasir stiffly, “let’s get some food in ya. I don’ know why yer here, and I don’ care, but ya can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“That’s our head cook, Brigga,” Fiora explained quietly as the woman rummaged through a pantry. “Over there is her assistant, Amani.” She pointed to a thin man, barely an adult, who was stirring a pot over the fire. “The nasty viper of a man was Sanev. He and the other two who left are the groundskeepers. He’s always been a sour character. I’m honestly surprised the Lord hired him, but I think he’s a cousin of a friend of something. It’s best you avoid him and let me or Lorsan know if he gives you trouble.”

Fiora took him by the arm, walking past a few others she didn’t introduce, and led him to the back of the kitchen where a small door set in a windowed wall led to a simple dining area. A pair of identical twins looked up at them as they entered, their fire orange hair nearly too bright to handle. Fiora nodded to them as they sat at the table. “These are the serving staff, Virion and Venali,” she indicated the man and woman, respectively. Venali simply nodded in return, while Virion’s face broke into a broad grin and he looked like he was about to burst with excitement.

Before he could say anything, Brigga returned, thumping a bowl of porridge and a cup of milk on the table in front of Nasir. “Breakfast is at five every day, miss it and ya eat cold porridge. Lunch is on the table from one to three, dinner at nine. Ya get hungry between, anything settin’ on the table is fair game.” She leaned forward to growl in Nasir’s face, “And _don’t_ go filchin’ from the larder, ya hear?”

Nasir nodded and, appeased, Brigga went back into the main part of the kitchen.

“Don’t mind her.”

Virion’s bright voice startled Nasir – gods, had he always been this jumpy? – and he turned back to the grinning Ignis. “A right drill sergeant she is, but that’s how she is with everyone.” Virion explained reassuringly.

Venali joined in, her expression remaining neutral. “She just likes things done a particular way. It is her kitchen after all.”

Virion’s nose scrunched up. “Still, she doesn’t have to be so mean about it.”

“Maybe she would be nicer if you didn’t keep stealing leftover biscuits.”

“Hey! I only take them when they’re nearly stale and going to be thrown out anyway!”

Listening to the twin’s banter was surprisingly soothing. A type of normalcy he hadn’t realized he’d missed. Looking down at his bowl, he was thrilled to find bits of chopped fruit and honey mixed into the now lukewarm porridge. A happy hum escaped him when he took the first bite, the simple breakfast more delicious in that moment than anything else he’d ever eaten.

After scraping the last spoonful out of his bowl, Nasir looked up and was surprised to find Virion staring at him, that big grin still on his face. When had he and his sister stopped bickering?

“Nasir, was it?” He tilted his head, the smile growing impossibly wider. “You’re absolutely adorable. I completely understand why his Lordship took you on. Hey, would you tell me about yourself, about your people? I want to know everything! Why do Nix keep their hair so long, doesn’t it get in the way? Is it true Nix turn bright red if left in the sun too long? At festivals, are there really org-“

“That’s enough now, Virion,” Fiora cut in. “Let the poor man breathe. Don’t you already have all the answers to those questions in Lord Rogan’s books?”

Virion scowled. “Those books were all written by Ignis scholars. They’re _guesses_ at best, _fantasies_ at worst. I want to know about Nix culture from an actual Nix! I’m sure the Lord is just as curious.”

Snorting, Fiora retorted, “Regardless of either of your curiosities, he only just arrived and here you are, burying him in an avalanche of questions. It’s plain rude.”

Virion opened his mouth to fire back, but Nasir softly interjected, “Uhm, if I may?”

Two sets of eyes fixed on him, one excitedly curious and the other gently encouraging. “We could, perhaps, work out an arrangement? Give me a few days to settle in, then you can ask a set number of questions a day?”

“Excellent idea, Nasir.” Fiora seemed pleased with his diplomatic response. “Give him a week, Virion. Then you may ask three questions a day. But,” she narrowed her eyes at him sternly, “Nasir has the right to refuse to answer any questions he wishes, and you will demand no explanation and immediately drop the subject. Agreed?”

Virion nodded emphatically. “Perfect! I can’t wait to learn from you!” Apparently, nothing could dampen his spark.

Venali, surely used to her twin’s antics, simply smirked at her brother’s enthusiasm and offered Nasir an appreciative nod.

They chatted for a little while longer – or, Virion and Fiora chatted. Venali seemed nearly as quiet as Nasir, only interjecting occasionally and usually with the intent of picking fun at her twin. The two laid out in detail the daily operations of Riscor manor. The permanent staff consisted of Fiora, Lorsan, Merrik the healer, and a few staff for the daily operations, like cooking and cleaning. There were also a handful of guards, but they lived in a separate outbuilding. Extra staff was hired for events, but most of the time the minimal staff was enough to keep the place running.

After breakfast, Fiora began showing Nasir around the manor. They started with the nearest areas where the servants worked. The garden right outside the kitchen where vegetables were grown, the small orchard right next to it, the larder, the cellar where wine and more foodstuffs were stored and that connected to the underground servants’ passage. Nasir felt his blood run cold when he noticed two small, ominous cells at the back of the cellar. Fiora tried to reassure him that they were only used when someone got too drunk and rowdy on a holiday, but he couldn’t shake the feelings that one wrong move might land him behind those bars, chained to the cold stone wall.

Leaving the dim cellar behind, they toured the ground floor. Nasir marveled at the ballroom. Nix didn’t have grand balls like the Ignis did. Feasts and festivals, certainly, but nothing as ostentatious as the parties the Ignis threw. There had been a massive cavern in the palace in Kheima for such celebrations, but it had been naturally formed. This ballroom was entirely manmade, and almost grander because of it. The undecorated room was open, simple, and elegant. He could almost pretend he was in one of the high-ceilinged caves of his home, but those were all certainly burned out and abandoned by now.

They poked their heads into a private dining area, where Lord Rogan took most of his meals. Across the entry in the larger entertaining hall, the few guests who had not left at dawn were dining with the Lord, who was bound by social etiquette to keep them company until they left.

Next was the library. They entered and Nasir was allowed some time to look around and browse titles. A ledger sat on a small table by the door, containing records of which staff members borrowed books and when. Virion’s name dominated most of the pages. Based on the titles he borrowed, his interests encompassed more than just Nix culture.

Nasir liked the library, it was warm and cozy, and it smelled of paper, ink, and firewood. On his way back to the door, one display in particular caught his eye. It was a simple table covered in a midnight blue cloth that had sparkling flecks woven into it; a shelf of books was attached to the wall above it. But it was the objects on the table that caught his interest.

His breath caught in his throat as he approached the table, the familiarity of its contents piercing his heart. A variety of well-kept artifacts sat upon the table. 

Nix artifacts. 

They were arranged as if showcasing the findings of a long dead culture, not of a living people struggling to survive. A ceremonial rapier with an intricately carved wrist-guard, polished until it gleamed. Similarly polished daggers and sword breakers. Pottery with scenes from Nix mythology painted on them. Necklaces and bracelets, ranging from the highly detailed kind that nobility wore to the simpler ones of the commoners. Religious items from bells to offering bowls. And in the center of the table sat a statue. It was chipped in a few places, having survived an Ignis raid, but it was easy to see the elegance and beauty of the goddess depicted.

Nixali, the mother goddess of the Nix, was always shown as a regal, elegant woman. It was no different here, but while most statues had her with arms out, ready to welcome her children, this one had her hands calmly folded in front of her, eyes closed and expression serene. Two curved horns rose from her head, one longer than the other so they looked like a crescent moon. Though they were missing, Nasir knew tiny crystals should have been strung between the horns to create a spiderweb of stars. 

Because Nasir knew this statue.

If he had held any doubt that Lord Rogan had been in Kheima, it evaporated that moment. This statue belonged in a particular side cavern in the capital’s High Temple. The room had been dedicated to all the different roles of their goddess; the moon and night, peacekeeper and mother, etc. This particular one showed her as empathy, solace. The one you could always turn to for comfort and advice in times of need, who would impart peace of mind to you. It had been Nasir’s favorite iteration, because for all the reckless confidence of his youth, his mind had still been plagued with the anxieties of war. 

“Ah, you found it.” Fiora said from behind him, her voice deliberately soft. “Lord Rogan’s interest in Nix culture is even greater than Virion’s. He salvaged items whenever he could in the field, and still regularly buys things from the travelling merchants when they come around. He even learned the basics of your language from war prisoners.” She gestured to the statue. “He says she’s your patron deity, like Ignaran is ours. Would you like a few minutes alone to pray?”

Stepping closer to the table, Nasir reached out to brush a finger across the goddess’s tiny cheek. He had spent hours praying to her, had been completely devoted. Yet, where was she the last sixteen years, while he was being humiliated, tortured, and thoroughly broken?

“No.” Carefully, he tilted the statue until it was lying face down on the table. “Thank you, but the gods aren’t listening anyway.”

The rest of the morning was spent completing the tour of the manor. He was shown the drawing room, study, conference room and the guest wing. The permanent cleaning staff was introduced to him as they came across them during their various chores.

After a hearty lunch – of which Nasir couldn’t eat nearly as much of as he wanted, for fear of overtaxing his neglected stomach – he was set to work on whatever tasks Fiora could find for him. Lord Rogan had been right when he said Fiora was a task master, but she didn’t give him anything he couldn’t handle. That didn’t mean it was easy, his muscles having forgotten the strain of menial labor, but it was satisfying in that it was honest work well done. 

Lorsan and Fiora showed him his room after dinner, up in a corner tower next to their rooms – supposedly the only single left. Nasir suspected it was actually so they could keep a better eye on him. It was simply furnished with a bed large enough for one person, a storage chest, dresser, chair, and wash basin. The room had been dusted, the linens changed, and the dresser stocked with two more sets of clothes and a spare pair of boots. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had in a long while.

Fiora told him she’d fetch him in the morning and bid him goodnight, and only after did Nasir allow himself to crawl into the soft bed – _his_ bed. The housekeeper had gone to great lengths to assure him that anything he bought with his salary was safe in his room – only he, Fiora and Lorsan had a key. He would never be forced to sleep on the floor or worry about meals being withheld. 

As he curled up under the blankets, the box he had been stuffing his chaotic emotions into all day finally shattered. Fear, anxiety, relief, confusion – they crashed into him in a massive wave, their weight threatening to drown him.

And he cried.


	9. Rogan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I only update full chapters here when the increments are finished updating on my other site, and this is a longer chapter. To find out where you can read smaller updates sooner, check out my Instagram: @m.stone0875

Rogan stared out the window of his study at the winding river that cut through the land beside the manor. He’d grown up watching Riscor River, knew every twist and turn, the patterns of the current, and even which plants grew on its banks. Playing in the shallows had been a favorite pastime in his childhood, and while in the field he often longed to be home again, lounging under the shade of the trees along the water’s edge. Now, watching the monotonous rush of water as it hurtled towards and over the cliff edge helped to calm him while he grappled with the revelation of Nasir’s capture and subsequent enslavement.

It had been on his mind all night. In the few moments of sleep he managed to get, he found himself in the dream with the wall, confusion and anxiety pouring from the being beyond it. He was almost certain now that it was Nasir, but he wasn’t sure how to bring the topic up with the Nix, who was already more than overwhelmed. All he could do was lean against the wall and offer as much comfort and reassurance as possible, promising that he would never cause Nasir pain again.

Because Nasir’s pain was his fault.

If the wall at Kheima had never fallen, Nasir wouldn’t have been captured. He never would have gone through the humiliation and torture Rogan was sure he had endured. Thousands of other Nix wouldn’t have lost their lives or suffered the same fate as Nasir if only Rogan’s division hadn’t broken through that damned wall.

Rogan had tried discussing his inner turmoil with Fiora once, but it had done little to help. She hadn’t judged him or thought him weak, but her method of comfort consisted of trying to convince him he wasn’t to blame. He was only following the king’s orders; he was a general doing his duty. There was no way he could have known that, out of all the divisions there that day, it would be his that broke through; he had no control over what happened to prisoners. So many reasons it wasn’t his fault.

Except it _was._

Just because he was following orders didn’t make his actions acceptable. He could have protested and taken a discharge, or simply resigned as was the right of the only heir to his family’s title. But he had stayed, commanded the men who brought their victory that day, and felled Nix soldiers under his own blade. He never petitioned for fair treatment of prisoners like he had wanted to, never even tried to buy up slaves and give them better lives. There had been so many opportunities to do the better thing, and he had been too afraid of being labeled a traitor to take any of them. Instead, he always took the easy road, soaking his hands in blood in the process.

But now there was Nasir. Getting him away from that gods-awful troupe was probably the first brave, right thing Rogan had ever done in his life. Helping him, taking care of him, wouldn’t do anything to erase the atrocities of his past, but it was _something_. He couldn’t save all the Nix, or ease their suffering, but he could accept any horrible fate the gods had planned for him if only he could save _this one._

There was a knock on the door, and Rogan had to take a deep breath to compose himself before calling out, “Come in.”

Fiora entered with Nasir, her bright and comfortable disposition a stark contrast to his nervous, skittish one. “Mi’ lord, we’ve come to see what position you’ve planned for Nasir.”

“Of course.” Rogan picked up a quill and paper from his desk. “Please, come in and sit.”

They sat on the small couch, Nasir right on the edge of the cushion like he was worried his touch would dirty the plush fabric. Rogan claimed the chair across from them and sat the quill and paper on the low table between them.

“Nasir, you said you handled logistics, correct?”

“Yes, mi’ lord.”

Rogan gestured to the paper. “I’d like to see how you do on these mathematical examples. Speed is a bonus, but accuracy is more important.”

Nasir nodded and examined the paper. Rogan could almost see the old practices in Nasir’s mind wake themselves up and shake off the dust. Picking up the quill, Nasir practically flew through the questions. A few of the harder ones gave him pause, but he worked through those, too, and was handing the paper back to Rogan in less than five minutes.

Having worked the solutions out before hand, Rogan checked over Nasir’s answers quickly before smiling at the Nix. “Perfect.”

Some of the nervous tension left Nasir’s shoulders, and Rogan hoped they would eventually get to a point where Nasir no longer feared how Rogan might react.

Rogan turned his attention to Fiora, who had been looking at Nasir as if seeing him for the first time. “Nasir will work here, as my assistant. I could use someone to help with the more everyday records while I try to solve the problems of the province.”

Fiora eyed his desk and the mess of books and papers that covered it. “Maybe he could help you stay organized, as well.”

Rogan chuckled, “He can try, but that may be a lost cause.” His amusement died, however, when he saw that Nasir had gone tense again. Was Nasir afraid to work so closely with him?

“Nasir?” he prompted gently. Nasir’s breathing hitched, but just barely. “You don’t have to work in here with me if you don’t want to. We can find something else for you to do. I simply thought you might like putting some of your old skills to use.”

Nasir was silent, examining his hands where they fidgeted in his lap. Rogan let him take as much time as he needed to work things out, and his patience was rewarded when the man replied in a quiet voice, “I’m alright working here. If it’s where I’ll be most useful.”

Rogan studied the Nix. He was still nervous and wouldn’t look up at Rogan’s face, but while his response was soft his voice hadn’t wavered. Rogan almost wanted to ask Fiora to find him a more comfortable position anyway, but he had asked Nasir what he wanted to do, and the man had responded. It’s possible he only chose that option because it’s what he thought Rogan wanted, but the lord still needed to show him that his decisions would be honored, regardless of motivation. Nasir needed to know he had the freedom to make choices for himself.

Relenting, Rogan said, “Very well then. If you ever wish to change postings in the future, please let me know. Fiora, you can go ahead now, we’ll be fine from here.”

Fiora nodded and stood, giving Nasir’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before leaving the study.

Rogan headed for his desk. “Make yourself comfortable there, Nasir, that’s probably the best place for you to work for now.” Sorting through a messy stack of letters, Rogan picked out a number of them and bundled them together. “Eventually, if you like this job, we can look into getting you a proper desk.” Plucking a few books from a shelf, he returned to the table and placed everything in front of Nasir.

“For now, I just need you to do some basic record-keeping. These,” he pointed to the letters, “are from various large farms and businesses across the province that have trade deals with the provincial government. In addition to normal taxes, they allow us to purchase bulk amounts of product at discounted rates so we can redistribute resources where they’re needed. We’re mostly self-sufficient here on the estate – we only need to pay staff wages and have enough to buy the few things we can’t produce or cover emergencies. So, when taxes come in, they’re funneled into three categories; our dues to the king, maintaining provincial infrastructure, and this social program.”

Rogan indicated the books. “Each business and farm has its own ledger, and there’s also a master ledger that helps keep track of overall expenses. Please go through the letters and update the logs accordingly, from oldest to newest.

“This last log is a record of current, finalized deals both between us and civilian businesses, and between businesses themselves. For those, you only need to log the date, parties involved, and a summary of the agreement. Everything is labelled pretty clearly but let me know if you have questions.”

“Yes, sir,” Nasir nodded. Rogan noticed a mild tremor in Nasir’s hands as he reached for the stack of letters. He wished Nasir wasn’t so nervous around him. Clinging to the hope that he would relax with time, Rogan returned to his own desk to work, giving the Nix some space.

Rogan tried to focus on the paperwork in front of him; mostly correspondences about trade negotiations, legislature proposals, and approvals for tax usage. He hated the paperwork but enjoyed seeing the outcomes that supported his citizens and helped them flourish.

He glanced up periodically to check on Nasir’s progress. More than a few times, he caught the Nix also glancing at him like he wanted to say something, but he always averted his eyes as fast as possible.

After a few hours of this, Rogan finally inquired, “Nasir? Is something on your mind?”

Nasir froze, barely even breathing, like he’d been caught doing something wrong and was waiting for punishment.

“It’s alright,” Rogan said in the soft voice that always seemed to calm the Nix. “Whatever it is, I promise I won’t be upset or angry.”

Nasir visibly braced himself before replying quietly, “Is…is it true that you…at Kheima you…”

_Oh._

“That I brought down the wall?” Rogan prompted gently.

Nasir swallowed hard and nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the papers in front of him.

“Did Fiora tell you?”

Another nod.

That was good, at least. Better Fiora than someone else using the lord’s military achievement to mock or demean the Nix.

Rogan drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “It’s true. But I wish it wasn’t.”

He wanted to apologize for it, apologize for all the suffering he caused and assure Nasir that his guilt ate away at him. But he was worried that anything he said now would sound like hollow words making excuses or trying to shift blame away from him.

“Why?” Nasir’s voice was strained, but Rogan couldn’t tell if he was suppressing tears, fear, or panic; possibly a mix of all three. “The night we met, you said you didn’t…that you didn’t want to add to our pain. Was…was that a lie?”

Rogan shook his head even though Nasir couldn’t see it. “It was not a lie. But, back then, even though I didn’t want to hurt more people, I had not yet worked up the nerve to resign from the army and make that vow. I was simply following orders; it’s not an excuse, simply the truth. I know it doesn’t justify my actions or make anything better.

“The king assigned our positions and ordered us to keep up a constant attack. There was talk among the other generals, wistful dreaming of bringing the wall down. But none of us actually thought it would happen. We were ready to settle in for a long siege. But then, the wall really did fall, and, well…” he trailed off since they both knew what came next. He still remembered the dread that filled him as he watched the stone fortification buckle and collapse, could still hear the cheers of victory from his men mixed with the screams of terror from the Nix.

He had to take a few more breaths to ward off the flashbacks before he could continue. “I know it’s worth nothing, but I am so, so sorry. It’s fine if you hate me, I wouldn’t blame you. But it won’t change that you will not be harmed while in my care. You are safe here.”

Silence stretched out between them. They each stared at their paperwork, but neither moved to resume their tasks.

“We did.”

Rogan frowned, finally looking up at Nasir. “Did what?”

“Expect the wall to come down. We knew it was coming.” Nasir shifted around on the couch to face Rogan but kept his eyes down. “It had been severely damaged in a previous battle. We scrambled to repair it, but we needed to quarry more stone. A third of our military force went to aid the workers in the quarry, but it still wasn’t fast enough. When we saw the size of the Ignis forces, we knew Kheima would be lost. The crown prince ordered an immediate evacuation, but everything happened so fast that not everyone was able to make it out in time.”

Nasir glanced up at Rogan. “I…I don’t know when, or even if, I’ll be able to forgive you. But I at least…don’t hate you. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness and…and I believe you, when you say you don’t want to hurt anyone. So, despite our histories, I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

Rogan blinked. That was not the reaction he had been expecting. “No, I…I should be thanking you. That you don’t hate me is more than I could have asked for. It’s…honestly, it’s more than I deserve…”

This time, it was Rogan who looked away from Nasir’s eyes. His gaze happened to fall on the clock, which read just past noon.

“I suppose now’s as good a time as any to break for lunch.” Jumping to his feet, Rogan headed for the door, motioning for Nasir to follow.

Rogan flagged down a passing maid in the hall and asked her to request two meals be brought out for them. Glancing over his shoulder a few times to reassure himself that Nasir was following, he led them down the stairs, through the library and out onto a wide veranda.

“This is my favorite place in the entire manor. It’s a wonderful spot to take meals when the weather permits,” he explained to Nasir. The veranda opened up onto a private garden that Rogan hardly ever took anyone to. Expertly maintained flowers were enclosed by a tall hedgerow and a large tree stood in the center of the garden, its shade merging with that cast by the veranda roof.

Nasir stepped to the edge of the porch, a look of wonder painted on his face. Rogan wondered when the Nix last had a chance to look – _really look_ – at flowers, or be outdoors in general.

Virion and Venali brought their food out on trays and arranged it on a table at one end of the veranda. Rogan noticed Virion flash a smile Nasir’s way before they disappeared again, and Rogan hoped the young man would be a good friend for the former slave. “Come, Nasir,” Rogan called. “You can explore the garden as much as you’d like after we eat.”

Slowly, Nasir joined Rogan at the table and sat opposite him. Rogan began removing the tray covers, revealing an assortment of breads, spiced meats, cheeses, and fresh fruits and vegetables. He handed Nasir a plate. “Go ahead and have anything you’d like,” he said, filling his own place.

Nasir hesitantly reached out and picked a few pieces – not as much as Rogan would have liked, but it was a start. They sat in silence as they ate, enjoying the spring breeze and soft sounds of the garden. Rogan observed Nasir from the corner of his eye. The Nix kept his gaze on the garden, but he still seemed restless. His knee started bouncing a few times – a movement he quickly stifled – and his fingers trembled when he took the cup of water Rogan poured for him. He rubbed at his temples a few times, and only nibbled at his bread and sipped water, leaving everything else on his plate untouched.

“Nasir.” The man tore his gaze from the garden and settled it just over Rogan’s shoulder. “You can eat as much as you like, you know. I had them bring plenty.”

Nasir bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Yes sir, thank you.” But he did not pick up anything else to eat.

Rogan frowned; Nasir was far too thin to be skipping meals. “Is this not to your taste? I could request something else.”

Flinching, Nasir shook his head. “I’m sorry, mi’ lord. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s only that my stomach is slightly unsettled, and I do not have much of an appetite at the moment.”

Rogan hummed. “Perhaps from stress? You’ve had a rather eventful few days. Why don’t you take some time to relax? I can always have more food brough later.” He pointed to the center of the garden. “If you sit against the far side of the tree, you’ll be in the shade and can smell the lavender when the wind blows.”

Nasir didn’t show any indication of if he wanted to stay or go. Rogan knew the Nix was waiting for an order, but he deliberately left the suggestion open-ended. Eventually, Nasir did rise and make his way over to the tree. It looked like he swayed slightly as he walked, but maybe it was a trick of the breeze as it played with the long silver strands of Nasir’s hair.

As the Nix settled himself into the tree’s twisted roots, Rogan leaned back in his chair and breathed in the scent of flowers. It relaxed him and reminded him of days long past, back before his parents died. When he and his father had spent hours playing together, pretending to hunt for magical creatures amongst the leaves. He and his mother, surrounded by greenery, reading books on lazy afternoons because the fresh air was better for her fragile health than staying in the stuffy library. Rogan and his father had spread her ashes here when she died, and a few years later his father’s joined hers. Sometimes, he liked to think they were still there, watching over him, but he knew that was impossible. Their souls had gone back to Morn and the Great Wheel a long time ago; they were probably reborn already and living new lives.

Rogan tended to bury himself in work to distract from his guilt and how lonely he was, but it became acutely apparent when he sat by himself in the garden. But he wasn’t alone this time – Nasir was there. They weren’t exactly in the most favorable circumstances, but the Nix’s quiet presence soothed him regardless.

They sat, not speaking, simply enjoying the peace of the early afternoon. From where he sat, Rogan could only glimpse Nasir’s shoulder around the tree, but it seemed like some of the tension had left his body. Close to an hour passed when Rogan decided they should probably get back to work.

“Nasir,” he called. The sound was jarring in the quiet garden. “We should head back in now.”

Nasir didn’t move or respond. Had he fallen asleep?

“Nasir?” Rogan called again, raising his voice. Still no response.

Anxiety curled in Rogan’s chest as he swiftly rose and made for the tree. He tried to reassure himself that everything was fine. The Nix was probably asleep, or maybe lost in his memories again. That may not be a great thing, but Rogan had pulled him out of panic attacks a few times already.

As he rounded the tree, the anxiety solidified into dread and dropped into the pit of Rogan’s stomach.

Nasir leaned back against the thick trunk, body limp and eyes closed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and his cheeks were flushed but the rest of his skin was paler than even a Nix should be.

Dropping to his knees, Rogan gripped his shoulders and gave him a firm shake, noticing cold sweat soaked through the shirt under his palms. “Nasir? Nasir! Wake up!”

What could have caused this? They’d just been sitting, not doing anything dangerous. A snake bite? Rogan didn’t know of any venomous snakes in the area. An extreme panic attack maybe?

Nasir’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up at the lord, gaze unfocused. “Lord…Rogan…?”

His wavering voice sent panic and determination through Rogan. He gathered Nasir in his arms – gods he was so light – and ran back into the manor.

“Merrick!” he shouted once inside, his booming voice echoing down the halls.

The healer nearly collided with Rogan in the hall halfway to the workroom. “Rogan! What’s going on?”

Rogan didn’t need to answer because that moment Nasir let out a soft, pained moan. Merrick’s eyes zeroed in on the Nix and Rogan could see the older man’s mind immediately begin assessing the situation.

Ushering Rogan along to the workroom, he began his tirade of questions. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. We were on the veranda for lunch, he sat under the tree for a bit.”

“Did this happen suddenly, or was he showing other symptoms beforehand?” Rogan laid Nasir on the cot while Merrick checked his temperature and pulse. “We need to lower this fever,” he mumbled to himself.

“He said he had no appetite because of nausea, and he was massaging his temples like his head hurt. That was before he went to sit under the tree. Other than that, I don’t think there was…” Rogan’s brow furrowed as he trailed off.

“What is it?” Merrick demanded. He was pouring water from a pitcher into a shallow basin and soaking clean rags in it.

“Well, he was pretty restless this morning. Fidgeting, but trying not to. I thought it was just anxiety from all the changes he’s been through recently.”

Merrick eyed Nasir critically as he used a cool rag to wipe away the sweat on the Nix’s face and neck. “He was slave, correct?” he asked calmly.

Rogan frowned, “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“What kind?” Merrick’s calmness was starting to get on Rogan’s nerves.

Glaring, Rogan ground out, “A pleasure slave.”

Merrick nodded and headed for his worktable, as if that answered every question in the world. He rummaged around in a box and pulled out a vial containing a familiar blue liquid.

Rogan paled and moved closer to Nasir as if protecting him from a threat. “You are not giving him that. Why do you even _have_ that?”

Merrick poured a small amount of the aphrodisiac into a mortar and began mixing it with other ingredients. “The Nix is going through withdrawal. We need to wean him off the drug slowly while treating the symptoms with other medicines. As to why I have it,” he gave Rogan a pointed look, “I bought it in case _you_ finally decided to take a lover and may have needed the assistance.”

Ignoring the fact that his healer thought he was impotent, Rogan growled, “Is there really nothing else we can try first? I promised he would never have to take that again.”

Merrick gave him a _look_ but did not question why his lord cared enough about a Nix to be making promises. Instead, he sarcastically responded, “Well, we _could_ wait it out. He’d be fine after suffering severe pain for several days, or even more than a week. That is, _if_ he survives.”

Clenching his fists, Rogan stepped away from the cot to give Merrick enough space to administer the medicine to Nasir. “It won’t be exactly like when he took it in the past,” the older Ignis explained as he tilted the Nix’s head back and poured the liquid down his throat. “It’s diluted in this tonic. He may be hazy and have some trouble focusing, and his skin might be more sensitive. Those effects will diminish as we step down the dose over time.”

Merrick tucked the blanket around Nasir and placed a damp cloth across his forehead before pulling away.

“Now what?” Rogan inquired anxiously.

“Now we give the medicine time to work through his system. It’ll be about half an hour before his discomfort eases.”

“That long?”

Merrick glared at him. “I am not a miracle worker, boy. The medicine will take however long it takes. If you’re so worried, you can sit here and change that cloth when needed.”

Sufficiently chastised, Rogan sat on the stool next to the cot and monitored Nasir’s condition tensely. He could feel Merrick’s probing eyes on him, but he didn’t have the energy to care about it. True to his word – though Merrick had never lied to him – within half an hour Nasir’s breathing evened out and color began returning to his skin.

Nasir stirred, groaning and blinking his eyes. “Lord Rogan?”

“Nasir,” Rogan sighed in relief. “How are you feeling?”

The Nix frowned. “Fuzzy, but…better, I think.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments.

“Good.” Rogan smiled softly, reaching out and stroking his fingers through Nasir’s hair. “Do you remember what happened?”

“We were…at lunch. I felt off, you suggested I sit under the tree for a while, and then…waking up here.” He sighed, relaxing, and Rogan stared in wonder when the Nix leaned slightly into his touch.

The spell was broken when Nasir’s eyes flew open and he finally realized where they were. “Oh gods, you had to carry me here, didn’t you? I’m so sorry, mi’ lord!” He started struggling into a sitting position. “And I’ve taken you from your work! Gods, how can I-“

“Shh, Nasir.” Rogan gently pushed the Nix back down. “It’s alright. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m not angry. Everything’s alright.” He looked into Nasir’s worried eyes, offered what he hoped was a reassuring expression and resumed stroking his hair.

“Sir?” Nasir asked in a small voice. Rogan knew he was nervous, that he didn’t know why Rogan was being so affectionate or what was expected of him in return. Truthfully, Rogan didn’t know why he was behaving that way either, but it felt right and with every brush of his fingers he could see Nasir relax a little more.

_This one._

This one what? But the voice in the back of his mind didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t have the thought capacity to worry about it that moment.

“I’ll explain what happened later,” he murmured. “Rest for now. I’ll still be here when you wake.”


End file.
